THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


7MEWESTEKM    M  ®  80  E 


SCENES  AT  HOME: 


OR,  THE 


BY  MRS.  ANNABACHE. 


1  My  eyes  make  pictures  when  they  are  shut."— COHKBIDGB. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

JAMES  K.  SIMON. 

1851. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 
of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Penn 
sylvania. 


STEREOTYPED    BY 

S.  DOUGLAS  WYETH,  AGT. 

No.  7,  Pear  Street.  Philad'i. 


TO 

THE  YOUNG  LADIES 

OF  THIS  COUNTRY 

THIS   LITTLE   BOOK 
IS  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED 

BY  THE 

PUBLISHER. 


INTRODUCTION 


MOST  people  have  heard  of  the  "  Grand 

&     Reservoir  of  Somewhere,"  in  which  all 

lost,  mislaid,  and  worn-out  articles  are  said 

5.    to  be  carefully  deposited.  In  this  reservoir 
3 

are  to  be  seen  piles  of  unfellowed  gloves, 
rows  of  dropped  snuff-boxes,  dozens  of 
^   lost  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  grosses  of 
>  mislaid  penknives.    Silver  and  gold  pen 
cil-cases  are  there  in  abundance ;  jewelry 
3   glitters  in  caskets,  crowds  of  borrowed 
•4   umbrellas  lean  in  the  corners,  and  libra- 
3   ries  of  lent  volumes  cumber  the  shelves. 
£•   Here  departed  fashions  leave  their  lega- 
*J  cies ;  gowns  in  which  our  grandmothers 
made  conquests,  and  coats  in  which  our 


V]  INTRODUCTION. 

grandfathers  made  love.  To  this  trea 
sury  does  the  tasteful  disposer  of  draw 
ing-room  decorations  consign  her  anti 
quated  card-baskets,  her  dusty  shell 
work,  her  cracked  vases,  and  her  tar 
nished  annuals. 

From  this  store-house  was  extracted 
the  faded  FIRE-SCREEN  whose  history  is 
now  given  to  the  world.  When  it  was 
discovered,  why  it  was  selected,  how  it 
contrived  to  relate  its  adventures,  and 
why  the  language  of  Fire-screens  was 
rendered  into  English,  "it  boots  not  now 
to  tell." 

A.    B. 


CONTENTS. 


MART  AND  HER  FATHER,      ......     11 

THE  RICH  MAM'S  DAUGHTER,  .         •      '».'.»'       .         18 
THE  LYNX  FAMIT.T,     .  ^  ':„•""'-••'       ••    •   •'        •         .34 

MRS.  BROWN'S  BOAHDING-HOUSE,    ....         71 

AGE  AND  YOUTH.          .......     75 

THE  YOUNG  CHRISTIAN,      r    •„       .        •        .         .       101 
INFATUATION,  .         .        ,  .        .  131 

CHANGES  OF  SCENE,          .        .         .         ,         •        .       179 
THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE,  .        «        .        •        •  191 


SCENES  AT  HOME. 


IX 


SCNES  AT  HOME; 

OH, 

A.  ED  WSES  IP  TUT  El  US   ©I?  A.   E'ni&IS-S 

MARY  AND  HER  FATHER. 


There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade. — GOLDSMITH. 
THE  FlRE-SCREEN  RELATES  ITS  OWN  HlSTORY. 

WHEN  I  first  became  conscious  of  existence? 
I  found  myself  in  a  small  room,  dimly  lighted 
by  an  autumnal  sunset.  The  once  white  walls 
were  of  a  brownish  yellow,  the  little  ten-plate 
stove  looked  battered  and  rusty,  but  the  un- 
carpeted  floor  was  clean,  and  the  furniture 
though  coarse  and  scanty,  was  neatly  arranged. 
Beside  the  stove  sat  a  feeble-looking  old  man, 
who  occasionally  fed  the  fire  with  chips  from 
a  broken  basket.  I  lay  on  a  large  pine  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  several  gay 
companions  formed  like  myself.  Drawing  ma 
terials,  gold  and  tinted  papers,  artificial  flowers, 

11 


12  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

strings  of  beads,  and  delicate  shells  covered  the 
table ;  and  near  me  sat  a  pale  girl,  whose  un 
healthy  looks  and  faded  attire,  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  elegance  of  her  employ 
ment,  and  the  glitter  of  the  expensive  toys 
which  lay  before  her.  She  was  sewing  tassel 
on  a  rich  bead  bag,  and  her  hands  trembled  as 
she  worked. 

"Mary,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  man,  at 
length,  "do  stop  now,  and  eat  your  supper. 
I  am  sure  you  need  it,  for  you  have  not  eaten 
any  thing  since  breakfast." 

«  Presently,  father ;  I  must  finish  this  before 
I  stop." 

The  old  man  arose  slowly  and  with  some 
difficulty  from  his  seat.  I  now  perceived  that 
the  arm-chair  in  which  he  sat,  was  provided 
with  a  patch-work  cushion;  an  old  rug  was 
thrown  over  the  back  of  it,  and  a  little  mat  lay 
on  the  floor  before  it.  The  old  man  drew  from 
a  corner  of  the  room  a  small  round  stand,  took 
out  of  a  cupboard  two  cups  and  saucers,  and 
two  plates,  which  he  placed  upon  it,  and  then 


MARY    AND    HER    FATHER.  13 

lifting  a  calico  curtain  which  hung  before  a 
small  recess,  he  displayed  a  few  sticks  of  wood, 
one  of  which  he  placed  in  the  stove. 

"  I  have  done  now,"  said  Mary,  rising  and 
placing  her  work  on  the  table.  She  turned  to 
the  stove,  took  from  it  a  small  black  earthen 
ware  tea-pot,  cut  a  few  slices  from  a  loaf  of 
rye  bread,  and  sat  down  with  her  father  to 
their  frugal  meal.  The  old  man  bent  his  gray 
head,  and  reverently  asked  a  blessing  on  the 
food,  before  they  tasted  it. 

"How  much  are  you  to  get  for  the  fire 
screens  and  bag,  Mary  ?"  inquired  the  old 
man. 

"  I  do  not  know,  father.  Fancy-work  is 
less  profitable  than  it  used  to  be,  now  that 
the  ladies  have  so  many  fairs.  The  things 
they  cannot  sell  are  put  in  stores,  and  the 
market  is  overstocked.  But  as  these  screens 
are  made  to  order,  I  shall  get  something  more 
than  I  did  for  the  last." 

"  Aye,  Mary,  my  daughter,  the  ladies  who 

get  up  these  fairs,  sit  by  bright  fires,  in  hand- 
2 


14  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

some  parlours,  while  they  make  their  toys. 
They  work  when  they  please,  and  quit  when 
they  please ;  they  sit  down  to  good  dinners, 
and  sleep  in  warm  beds ;  and  they  think  little, 
and  care  little,  about  those  who  must  work 
whether  they  like  it  or  not ;  who  cannot  stop 
when  their  heads  ache,  or  their  hearts  ache ; 
who  must  work  with  cold  hands  and  hungry 
stomachs,  before  they  can  be  warmed  and 
fed." 

"  They  mean  to  do  good,  father." 
"Yes,  Mary,  but  they  give  as  alms  what 
should  be  paid  as  debt.  It  is  the  duty  of  the 
rich  to  help  the  poor,  and  I  believe  there  are 
few  who  would  rather  be  beggars  than  la 
bourers.  While  these  ladies  are  collecting 
money  at  their  fairs,  they  are  robbing  one 
class  of  the  industrious  poor  of  their  rights, 
that  they  may  give  to  another  class  in  charity. 
The  rich  best  help  the  poor,  when  they  give 
them  plenty  of  work,  and  pay  them  a:  good 
price  for  it." 

"  Then  if  ladies  who  encourage  fairs,  would 


MARY    AND    HER    FATHER.  15 

employ  us  to  make  the  things,  and  pay  us  a 
fair  price  for  them  at  first,  it  would  not  be 
wrong  to  get  up  fairs,  and  sell  those  things 
afterwards,  for  as  much  as  people  choose  to 
give — would  it,  father  ?" 

"  I  think  not,  Mary.  Fairs  might  be  made 
doubly  useful  in  that  way.  But,  as  I  heard 
Mathew  Carey  say  once,  '  It  takes  a  great 
deal  of  judgment  to  know  how  to  do  good.'  " 

"  It  does  indeed,  father.  I  wish  some  of 
those  charitable  ladies  thought  of  that." 

There  was  a  pause.  Their  meal  was  finished. 
Mary  quickly  washed  up  the  tea-things,  and 
set  them  by,  then  placing  me  and  my  compa 
nions  in  a  little  basket,  she  held  up  the  bag  to 
her  father. 

"  Is  it  not  pretty,  father  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mary  dear,  but  it  is  hard  to  see  you 
forced  to  toil  your  pretty  eyes  'out  over  these 
things  for  a  morsel  of  bread.  Little  did  I 
think,  when  I  paid  for  your  schooling,  that  it 
was  to  be  put  to  such  a  use." 

<•  Dear  father,"  said  Mary,  throwing  her  arm 


16  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

round  the  old  man's  neck,  "  what  better  use 
could  it  be  put  to,  than  earning  honest  bread 
for  us  both  ?" 

"  God  bless  you,  Mary,"  said  he,  returning 
her  embrace,  while  tears  rolled  down  his 
wrinkled  cheeks — "  God  will  bless  you,  for 
you  are  a  dutiful  child." 

"  He  does  bless  me  " — said  Mary,  looking 
fondly  at  her  father,  while  her  eyes  brightened, 
and  a  lovely  glow  suffused  her  pale  cheeks. 
"  He  does  bless  me,  for  He  enables  me  to  help 
and  comfort  you.  But  I  must  go,"  she  con 
tinued,  recollecting  herself,  "  it  is  quite  dark ; 
however  it  is  not  far  to  Mrs.  Hart's.  I  wish 
' — "  tying  her  bonnet,  and  putting  on  her  cloak 
as  she  spoke ;  "  I  wish  I  were  going  to  Mrs. 
Hudson's.  She  always  has  a  kind  word  and 
look,  no  matter  how  busy  she  is.  Good-bye, 
father,  for  a  little  while.  Stop — I  '11  reach  you 
the  Bible  before  I  go."  She  set  the  little  stand 
before  the  old  man,  placed  a  large  book  on  it, 
trimmed  the  lamp,  and  put  it  beside  the  book ; 
doing  all  these  little  servicee  with  the  quick 


MARY    AND    HER    FATHER.  17 

movement  of  one  who  never  wasted  a  moment, 
and  never  had  a  moment  to  waste.  She  then 
left  the  room  and  descended  the  stairs,  singing 
in  a  low  voice  as  she  went, 

"  When  darkness  and  when  sorrows  rose, 

And  press'd  on  every  side  ; 
Did  not  the  Lord  sustain  my  steps. 

And  was  not  God  my  guide?" 

The  door  closed  behind  her  and  I  left  the 
abode  of  virtuous  poverty. 


THE  RICH  MAN'S  DAUGHTER. 


How  shocking  must  thy  summons  be,  oh !  Death ! 
i  To  him  that  is  at  ease  in  his  possessions—  BLAIR. 


I  REMAINED  in  the  basket  for  some  hours,  and 
was  at  length  released  from  my  prison  by  an  el 
derly  lady,  who,  taking  hold  of  my  gilded  handle 
turned  me  round  and  round,  eyed  me  with  ap 
parent  admiration,  and  placed  me  on  a  marble 
mantle-piece,  near  a  beautiful  China  vase.  She 
then  left  the  room,  and  I  took  a  survey  of  my 
new  habitation,  It  was  very  unlike  the  humble 
abode  I  had  quitted.  The  room  was  large  and 
lofty,  the  furniture  elegant  and  abundant,  and 
gazing  round  on  rich  curtains  and  carpets,  taste 
ful  chairs,  luxurious  sofas,  splendid  mirrors, 
glittering  lamps,  and  costly  tables,  laden  with 
books,  prints,  and  toys ,  I  felt  that  I  certainly 
was  in  very  good  society.  As  this  was  my 


THE    RICH    MAN'S    DAUGHTER.  19 

first  appearance  in  high  life,  I  might  have  been 
somewhat  abashed  had  not  a  large  mirror 
which  hung  opposite,  enabled  me  to  form  a 
pretty  accurate  estimate  of  my  own  personal 
advantages,  and  I  found  myself  well  fitted  to 
take  my  place  in  the  brilliant  circle  to  which  I 
was  admitted.  I  was  elegantly  shaped,  and 
covered  with  embossed  paper  of  a  pale  lilac 
hue,  ornamented  with  wreaths  of  flowers,  so 
finely  painted,  that  they  seemed  to  rival  in 
beauty  the  delicate  natives  of  the  hot-house, 
which  bloomed  in  my  neighbour,  the  China 
vase.  I  was  edged  with  gold,  and  my  carved 
handle  was  covered  with  the  same  bright  mat- 
terial.  My  Chinese  neighbour  was  a  traveller, 
and,  with  the  ease  of  one  who  had  seen  the 
world,  entered  into  conversation  with  me. 
From  him  I  learned  some  particulars  of  the 
family,  whose  mansion  we  assistea  to  adorn. 

"Mr.  Walcott,"  said  the  vase,  "  is  a  wealthy 
merchant.  His  family  consists  of  a  wife  and 
one  child;  a  beautiful  daughter, just  brought 
out." 


20  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

I  inquired  the  meaning  of  the  last  phrase, 
feeling  rather  awkward  as  I  confessed  my  igno 
rance  ;  but  my  Chinese  friend,  being  much 
too  well-bred  either  to  smile  or  sneer,  quietly 
gave  me  the  information  I  desired. 

"  There  is  a  time,"  said  he,  "  in  every 
young  lady's  life,  somewhere  between  her  fif 
teenth  and  eighteenth  years,  at  which  her 
education  is  said  to  be  finished;  She  is  taken 
from  school ;  the  accomplishments  which  have 
been  acquired,  or  are  supposed  to  have  been 
acquired,  at  the  cost  of  much  time  and  pains 
on  the  part  of  the  damsel,  and  much  money 
on  the  part  of  her  parents,  are  to  be  exhibited 
to  the  world.  Dress-makers,  milliners,  jew 
ellers,  and  hair-dressers,  are  put  into  requisi 
tion;  certain  quantities  of  wines,  jellies,  cakes, 
ices,  &c.,  are  prepared  ;  cards  of  invitation  are 
issued  to  a  iSrge  number  of  persons,  requesting 
their  presence  at  the  house  of  the  young  lady's 
parents.  If  more  people  assemble  than  the 
rooms  will  hold,  so  much  the  better.  The 
young  lady  appears,  elegantly  dressed,  her 


THE    RICH    MAN'S    DAUGHTER.  21 

drawings  lie  on  the  centre-table  in  a  handsome 
port-folio,  or  placed  in  superb  frames,  ornament 
the  walls.  She  plays  on  the  piano-forte  or 
harp ;  is  asked  to  sing — to  dance.  She  com 
plies  ;  her  parents  are  complimented  by  the 
papas  and  mammas,  and  herself  by  the  young 
men.  She  is  now  entitled  to  receive  morning 
calls,  go  to  evening  parties,  and  frequent  public 
amusements.  Her  party  is  returned  by  invi 
tations  to  a  multitude  of  others,  and  she  floats 
gaily  along  the  current  of  fashionable  society. 
She  is  now  brought  out,  and  supposed  to  be 
fit  to  undertake  the  duties  of  wife  and  mo 
ther,  whenever  an  eligible  match  shall  offer." 
I  thanked  the  vase  for  his  information, 
though  I  could  not  understand  how  a  series 
of  morning  calls  and  evening  parties,  should 
prepare  a  young  women  for  the  discharge  of 
conjugal  and  maternal  duties.  I  was  pro 
ceeding  to  ask  other  questions,  when  the  door 
was  thrown  open  with  some  violence,  and 
several  young  people  entered  the  room,  laugh 
ing  and  talking  with  great  vivacity.  The 


22  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

handsomest  of  the  ladies  did  the  honours  of 
the  apartment,  and  I  conjectured  her  to  be 
the  daughter  of  Mr.  Walcott.  The  party  dis 
persed  about  the  room,  and  Miss  Walcott  threw 
herself  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire.  An  elegant- 
looking  young  man  placed  himself  beside  her, 
with  a  book  of  prints  in  his  hand,  which  they 
began  to  look  over.  They  talked  at  intervals, 
and  presently  the  heat  of  the  anthracite  coal 
appeared  to  overcome  Miss  Walcott,  for  she 
reached  out  her  hand,  took  me  down  from  my 
station,  and  held  me  before  her  face.  I  won 
dered,  however,  why  I  was  oftener  held  be 
tween  her  and  her  companion,  or  between  her 
and  the  rest  of  the  company,  than  between  her 
and  the  fire.  Sometimes  she  examined  my 
shape  very  intently,  and  sometimes  used  me 
as  a  fan.  Then  she  sat  upright,  pressing  my 
gilded  edge  against  her  rosy  mouth,  and  look 
ing  down  at  the  book  of  engravings.  At  last 
she  said,  "  It  is  really  too  warm  here ;"  and 
attempted  to  rise. 


THE    RICH    MAN'S    DAUGHTER.  23 

"One  word,  dearest  Fanny!"  whispered  the 
gentleman. 

Fanny  did  not  speak,  but  she  held  me  up 
before  her  face,  and  lifted  her  bright  tearful 
eyes  to  his.  I  suppose  he  was  satisfied — at 
least  he  looked  so. 

That  night  it  was  known  in  the  family  that 
Mr.  Raymond  and  Miss  Walcott  were  engaged. 

Time  sped  on.  Preparations  were  made  for 
Fanny's  marriage,  mean  time  she  partook 
freely  of  all  the  gaieties  of  a  fashionable  win 
ter.  Raymond,  as  gay  and  thoughtless  as  her 
self,  never  wearied  of  attending  his  beautiful 
betrothed.  Many  books  lay  about  the  par 
lour,  but  I  never  could  detect  one  bearing  any 
resemblance  to  the  large,  time-worn  volume  I 
had  seen  Mary  place  so  reverently  before  her 
father.  Perhaps,  so  unwieldly  and  old-fash 
ioned  a  book  was  not  deemed  a  fit  companion 
for  the  elegant  volumes  I  now  and  then  saw 
Miss  Walcott  look  through.  At  any  rate,  I  do 
not  recollect  that  I  ever  even  heard  it  men 
tioned.  On  Sundays,  when  the  weather  was 


24  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

very  fine,  and  Mr.  Walcott  had  not  a  dinner 
party,  Mrs.  and  Miss  Walcott  sometimes  came 
in  with  richly  bound  books,  lettered  "  Prayer," 
in  their  hands ;  but  I  never  saw  these  books 
opened. 

The  day  appointed  for  the  marriage  drew 
near,  when  I  missed  Fanny  from  the  parlour, 
and  heard  Mrs.  Walcott  tell  her  visiters  that 
Miss  Walcott  had  taken  a  violent  cold,  and 
was  indisposed.  The  next  morning,  a  plea 
sant-looking  old  lady,  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before,  came  into  the  parlour  with  Mrs.  Walcott. 

"  We  arrived  only  last  night,"  said  she, 
"but  hearing  that  dear  Fanny  was  ill,  I  came 
down  immediately." 

"  She  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  replied 
Mrs.  Walcott ;  "  but,  my  dear  sister,  let  me 
beg  of  you  not  to  teaze  the  poor  girl  with  talk 
about  religion,  and  so  on  ;  you  know  what  I 
mean.  Her  spirits  are  low,  and  her  nerves 
very  irritable." 

The  lady  sighed,  and  shook  tier  head,  but 
said  nothing.  Mrs.  Walcott  walked  to  the 


THE    RICH    MAN'S    DAUGHTEB.  25 

fire-piace,  took  me  down,  and  seated  herself. 
A  servant  entered  to  say  that  Miss  Walcott 
was  awake,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  Mrs. 
Deane.  The  ladies  arose  and  went  up  stairs  ; 
Mrs.  Walcott  still  carrying  me  in  her  hand. 
The  chamber  to  which  I  was  introduced,  was 
as  spacious  and  luxuriously  fitted  up  as  the 
parlour  I  had  left.  Seated  in  an  easy  chair  by 
the  fire,  was  Miss  Walcott.  She  looked  bril 
liantly  beautiful ;  her  colour  was  higher  and 
her  eyes  brighter,  than  I  had  ever  seen  them, 
and  her  simple  white  wrapper  allowed  the  gaze 
to  rest  with  undivided  interest  on  the  wearer. 
But  there  was  something  unnatural  and  fear 
ful  in  her  beauty,  and  her  voice  sounded  as 
though  she  spoke  painfully.  A  gentleman 
dressed  in  black  sat  beside  her,  holding  her 
hand,  and  keeping  his  finger  on  her  wrist. 

"  Dear  aunt !"  she  exclaimed,  stretching  out 
her  disengaged  hand,  "  how  glad  I  am  to  see 
you !  Come  sit  by  me — quite  close,  aunt. 
How  long  is  it  since  you  came  back?  Have 

you  brought  me  any  New  York  fashions?     Is 
3 


26  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

it  not  provoking  that  I  should  be  taken  ill  just 
now?  I  have  missed  Julia  Clark's  wedding-party, 
and  Mrs.  Philipson's  ball,  already ;  and  Mrs. 
Stanwood  gives  a  party  next  week.  They  say 
it  will  be  the  most  splendid  thing  that  ever  was 
given  in  Philadelphia.  Dear  Doctor,"  turning 
to  the  gentleman,  "  you  must  make  me  well 
by  Thursday  next." 

The  Doctor  smiled,  and  expressed  his  hope 
that  Miss  Walcott  would  be  quite  well  before 
that  time.  Then  he  arose,  and  talked  a  little 
with  Mrs.  Waleott  at  a  window.  I  distin 
guished  the  words,  "  perfectly  quiet ;"  "  some 
inflammation ;"  "  nervous  system ;"  &c.  &c. : 
then  bowing  to  Mrs.  Deane,  and  bidding  his 
fair  patient  good  morning,  he  retired,  accom 
panied  by  Mrs.  Walcott. 

Mrs.  Deane  drew  close  to  the  invalid,  and 
took  her  hand  affectionately.  «  Oh  !  now  dear 
auntie,"  exclaimed  Fanny,  "  I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say.  Pray  don't  talk  to  me 
now  about  death,  and  eternity,  and  such  gloomy 
things.  I  am  dull  enough  already,  shut  up  here 


THE    RICH    MAN'S    DAUGHTER.  27 

— and  the  Doctor  wo'n't  allow  people  to  come 
up  and  enliven  me.  I'm  sure  there's  not  much 
the  matter  with  me,  after  all — but — "  a  violent 
cough  forbade  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence. 

"  My  dear  niece,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  gently, 
"  I  hope  indeed  that  your  sickness  is  not  unto 
death  ;  but  if  you  recover  now,  do  you  think 
you  will  live  the  less  happily  for  knowing 
how  to  die  ?" 

Fanny  pouted  her  lip,  but  her  love  for  her 
aunt,  and  her  natural  sweetness  of  temper, 
conquered  the  rising  irritation. 

"  I  do  not  know,  indeed,  aunt,"  said  she, 
frankly,  "  for  I  have  never  thought  about  the 
matter." 

"  Then,  my  love,  while  your  indisposition 
allows  you  leisure,  had  you  not  better  give 
the  subject  a  little  consideration  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  set  about  it,"  an 
swered  Fanny,  half  laughing. 

Mrs.  Deane  sighed.  "  Well,  my  darling,  I 
will  not  teaze  you  with  any  more  questions 
at  present ;  only,  while  you  sit  here  alone  and 


28  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

unemployed,  look  over  this — "  and  she  took 
a  small  book  from  a  bag  which  hung  on  her 
arm,  and  placed  it  on  her  niece's  lap.  "It 
will  teach  you  how  to  set  about  it."  Then 
kissing  Fanny's  forehead,  she  bade  her  good 
morning,  and  departed. 

Left  alone,  Fanny  took  up  the  book.  "  The 
Bible  !  the  Bible  !"  said  she,  peevishly.  "  I 
wonder  aunt  Deane  did  not  send  for  a  minister 
to  pray  for  me.  One  would  think  I  was  at  the 
last  gasp.  After  all,  suppose  I  was  to  die,  how 
should  I  fare  ?  I  have  not  done  any  harm 
that  I  know  of.  Aunt  Deane  is  always  talk 
ing  about  pleasing  God.  I  do  not  know  that 
I  have  ever  done  any  thing  to  displease  him. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  die."  She  paused,  and 
began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  Bible. 
Presently  her  attention  seemed  engaged,  and 
an  air  of  earnest  seriousness  overspread  her 
beautiful  features. 

She  had  been  reading  about  half  an  hour, 
when  the  door  was  softly  opened,  and  a  bloom 
ing  face  appeared  in  the  aperture.  "  May  1 


THE    RICH    MAN'S    DAUGHTER.  29 

come  in  ?rt  said  the  intruder,  playfully  ;  and 
without  waiting  for  permission,  she  closed  the 
door,  ran  up  to  Fanny,  and  embraced  her. 
"  They  told  me  below  that  you  were  too  ill 
to  see  any  body ;  but  I  knew  the  prohibition 
did  not  extend  to  me,  so  I  stole  up  without 
leave,  for  I  was  determined  to  see  you." 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  Dora,"  exclaimed  Fanny, 
dropping  her  book.  I  am  so  glad  you  came 
up,  for  I  am  quite  melancholy.  Aunt  Deane 
has  been  here,  and  I  do  believe  she  thinks  I 
am  going  to  die." 

"  Going  to  die !  nonsense.  You  never 
looked  better  in  your  life.  There,  is  that  a 
dying  face  ?"  and  the  young  lady  snatched  a 
mirror  from  the  toilet  and  held  it  before  her 
friend.  Fanny  contemplated  her  fever-bright 
ened  face  with  a  smile,  and  Dora,  putting 
down  the  mirror,  went  on.  "Well,  my  dear 
Fanny,  I  have  come  to  spend  a  quiet  hour 
with  you,  and  look  over  your  bridal  finery. 
I  called  at  Thibaults'  this  morning,  and  saw 

Raymond   looking   at  some   splendid  sets  of 
3* 


30  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

pearl.     I  guessed  their  destination.     Have  you 
bought  your  veil,  yet  ?" 

Fanny's  maid  was  summoned.  Drawers,  . 
wardrobes,  and  bandboxes,  yielded  up  their 
gay  contents  ;  the  Bible  dropped  unnoticed  on 
the  floor,  and  the  young  ladies  spent  two 
hours  in  animated  discussions  on  white  satin, 
lace  veils,  pelerines,  collars,  sleeves,  skirts,  &c. 
&c.  &c.,  until  Mrs.  Walcott  coming  up,  ex 
pressed  great  vexation  at  Fanny's  neglect  of 
the  Doctor's  injunctions ;  ordered  the  maid  to 
assist  her  into  bed  immediately,  and  requested 
Miss  Dora  to  walk  down  stairs. 

When  the  doctor  called  in  the  evening  he 
declared  Fanny  to  be  much  worse,  and  bled 
her  copiously.  In  the  night,  Mrs.  Walcott  was 
called  up ;  Fanny  was  delirious,  and  the  Doc 
tor  was  sent  for  again.  For  two  days  the 
miserable  parents  watched  the  sick  bed  of  their 
only  child.  Raymond  never  left  her,  and  Mrs. 
Deane,  who  had  been  sent  for  as  soon  as  the 
case  was  declared  alarming,  attended  her  with 
untiring  care.  She  watched  anxiously  for  a 


THE    RICH    MANJS    DAUGHTER.  31 

moment  in  which  she  might  speak  to  the  dying 
girl  of  her  Saviour,  but  when  Fanny  did  not 
rave,  she  lay  in  a  stupor,  and  Mrs.  Deane  could 
only  put  up  mental  supplications  in  her  behalf. 

About  noon  on  the  third  day,  Fanny  awoke 
from  an  uneasy  slumber,  and  stared  feebly 
around  her.  Her  father  stood  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  his  arms  folded,  his  lips  compressed, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  daughter.  Her 
mother  leaned  weeping  against  the  bed-post. 
Raymond  knelt  beside  the  bed,  holding  one  of 
her  hands.  Mrs.  Deane  bent  over  her,  and 
raised  her  head. 

"  Fanny,  dear,"  said  she. 

Fanny  glanced  at  her  aunt,  then  at  her 
parents  and  her  lover.  Her  eyes  returned  to 
her  aunt.  "  Aunt,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  hollow 
tone,  "  I  am  going  to  die." 

"  Yes,  dear  Fanny,  but  Jesus  Christ  is  will 
ing  to  receive  you.  Are  not  yon  willing  to  be 
saved  by  Him  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  am,"  murmured 
Fanny,  in  that  same  unnaturally  quiet  tone. 


32  SCENES    AT    HOME. 


don't  you  believe  in  Him,  dearest 
Fanny  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  do." 

"  But  will  not  you  strive  to  go  to  Him  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  the  way." 

There  was  a  faint  gasp  —  a  slight  spasm  — 
and  the  spirit  departed  to  traverse  without  a 
guide,  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

Mrs.  Deane  gently  laid  back  the  fair  head 
on  its  pillow,  and  closed  the  eyes.  Mrs. 
Walcott  gave  a  loud  scream,  and  sunk  on  the 
floor  in  strong  hysterics.  Raymond  still  knelt 
beside  the  bed,  holding  the  lifeless  hand,  and 
groaning  in  irrepressible  agony.  Mrs.  Deane 
assisted  in  conveying  the  poor  mother  to  her 
own  room,  and  having  directed  the  attendants 
what  to  do,  she  returned  to  the  chamber  of 
death.  Mr.  Walcott  still  stood  in  his  former 
attitude,  gazing  fixedly  on  the  body.  Mrs. 
Deane  approached  him,  put  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  an-d  whispered,  ,  "  My  dear  brother." 

He  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 


THE    RICH    MAN'S    DAUGHTER.  33 

"  Dear  brother,"  she  resumed  after  a  short 
pause,  «  come  with  me." 

He  shook  off  her  hand  impatiently,  and 
resumed  his  former  position. 

"  You  are  sorely  tried  ;  but  oh !  dearest 
brother,  God  can  sustain  you.  Look  to  his 
mercy." 

"  Away  !"  he  shouted.  "  Look  there,  and 
then  talk  to  me  of  God's  mercy,  if  you  dare. 
My  child  ;  my  daughter ;  my  darling !  I  toiled 
for  her  ;  I  strove  for  her ;  I  lived  for  her ;  and 
she  lies  there." 

Rage,  more  than  grief,  seemed  to  convulse 
the  miserable  man.  His  face  grew  livid,  while 
foam  gathered  on  his  lips,  he  uttered  some 
inarticulate  murmurs,  and  fell  down  in  an  apo 
plectic  fit. 

The  father  and  daughter  were  buried  on  the 
same  day. 


THE   LYNN    FAMILY. 


Domestic  Peace  '-  to  thy  white  hand  is  given 

Of  earthly  happiness  the  golden  key. —  Gems  from  the  Antique. 


WHEX  poor  Fanny's  chamber  was  arrayed 
for  the  funeral,  I  was  placed  in  a  drawer, 
where  I  remained  for  some  time.  At  length, 
I  was  taken  out,  wrapped  in  paper,  and  carried 
away.  When  my  envelope  was  removed,  I 
found  myself  in  the  hands  of  a  lady,  who 
after  allowing  two  pretty  children  to  look  at 
me,  placed  me,  as  usual,  on  the  mantel-piece. 

My  new  abode  was  a  parlour,  plainly  fur 
nished,  but  arranged  with  the  most  perfect 
neatness.  A  cheerful  fire  burned  in  the  grate  ; 
the  table  was  set  for  tea.  The  two  children, 
a  boy  of  seven,  and  a  girl  about  four  years  old, 
were  playing  on  the  carpet ;  a  pretty  girl  of 
ten,  sat  on  a  low  chair  beside  a  cradle,  in 

which  slept  a  beautiful  baby.     The  girl  rocked 
34 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  35 

the  cradle  with  one  hand,  and  held  in  the  other 
a  book,  which  she  read  very  attentively.  The 
lady  placed  a  small  basket  of  cakes  on  the  tea- 
table,  then  she  took  from  it  a  lamp,  and  putting 
it  on  a  small  stand  near  the  cradle,  said  to  the 
absorbed  reader,  "My  love,  you  should  not 
read  so  far  from  the  light." 

"  I  know  it  mamma,  but  I  did  not  think 
about  the  light  just  then.  I  was  on  the  moun 
tain  with  Ruth  Lee,"  holding  up  her  book. 
Her  mother  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  followed 
by  a  sigh,  and  opening  her  work-box,  she  sat 
down  beside  the  stand. 

"  A'n't  you  well,  dear  mamma  ?"  said  the 
reader,  looking  anxiously  at  her  mother. 

"  Yes,  darling  ;  quite  well." 

"  Then  why  do  you  sigh  so,  mamma,  and 
look  so  grave  ?  Is  any  thing  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me  Emma  ;  but 
I  have  just  been  to  bid  poor  Mrs.  Walcott 
good-bye." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Walcott ! — oh,  yes  !  I  recollect 
the  day  Fanny  Walcott  called  on  you.  She 


36  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

was  so  pretty  and  good-natured.  How  she  kissed 
the  baby,  and  played  with  George  and  Harriet. 
Tell  me  what  you  saw  to-day,  mamma. 

"  I  saw  a  sad  sight,  Emma.  Mrs.  Walcott 
was  very  ill  after  the  deaths  of  her  husband 
and  child.  She  has  recovered,  and  is  going 
with  a  party  of  fashionable  friends  to  Europe. 
She  says  she  cannot  bear  the  place  where  she 
lost  her  husband  and  daughter :  so  the  elegant 
house  and  furniture  are  to  be  sold.  She  gave 
me  that  beautiful  screen  for  a  keepsake.  She 
says  she  hopes  that  new  company  and  new 
scenes,  will  make  her  forget  her  troubles." 

"  But,  mamma,  what  are  people  to  do  who 
have  troubles,  and  can't  afford  to  go  to  new 
company  and  new  scenes  ?" 

"Don't  you  know,  Emma?" 

"  I  think  I  do,  mamma ;"  and  the  little  girl 
spoke  very  seriously.  "  Jesus  says,  '  Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  " 

"  Mrs.  Walcott  will  not  go  to  Jesus,  Emma. 
She  will  not  look  for  comfort  where  it  may  be 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  37 

found,  and  she  is  restless  and  miserable.  One 
minute  she  is  giving  orders  for  new  dresses, 
and  the  next,  crying  over  her  daughter's  pic 
ture,  and  wishing  she  was  dead  too." 

"  Was  Mr.  Walcott  pious,  mamma  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear.  He  thought  of  nothing  but 
making  money.  He  used  to  boast  that  his 
daughter  was  the  prettiest,  and  he  would 
make  her  the  richest  girl  in  Philadelphia. 
When  his  ships  made  good  voyages,  he  used 
to  tell  her  how  much  he  had  gained  on  the 
cargoes,  and  say,  « It  is  all  for  you,  Fanny." 
His  finest  ship  was  named  after  her,  and  while 
he  would  refuse  a  cent  to  a  starving  family,  he 
would  give  poor  Fanny  thousands  to  squander v 
on  trifles." 

"  She  was  his  idol,  mamma." 

"Yes,  Emma;  and  when  that  idol  was 
thrown  down,  the  poor  father's  life  and  rea 
son  went  with  it." 

Mrs.  Lynn  paused,  and  wiped  away  a  tear. 
Emma's  eyes  were  overflowing,  and  she  hid 

them  in  her  mother's  lap. 
4 


38  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

The  street-door  bell  rang.  "  Papa  !  papa  !" 
shouted  the  children.  Emma  hastened  to  let 
her  father  in,  and  the  little  ones  ran  after  her. 
Mr.  Lynn  entered  with  a  smiling  face,  and 
and  Mrs.  Lynn's  grave  aspect  brightened  when 
she  saw  her  beloved  husband.  The  baby, 
waked  by  the  gleeful  bustle,  was  taken  up  by 
his  father.  Mrs.  Lynn  put  the  tea  on  the 
table,  and  Emma  placed  the  chairs. 

Mr.  Lynn  was  head-clerk  to  a  very  wealthy 
merchant.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lynn  were  well 
born  and  well-bred,  but  their  circumstances 
were  below  their  tastes  and  education,  and 
they  wisely  conformed  to  them.  They  rented 
a  small  house  in  a  retired  street,  kept  but  one 
domestic,  visited  seldom,  and  saw  little  com 
pany.  Mrs.  Lynn  educated  her  children  at 
home,  and  as  she  made  her  own  clothes  and 
theirs,  besides  assisting  in  household  business, 
the  fashionable  goblin  Ennui,  never  found  her 
at  leisure  to  receive  him.  As  their  limited 
income  obliged  them  to  live  with  exact  eco 
nomy,  the  funds  for  the  charity  they  loved  to 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  39 

exercise,  could  be  supplied  only  by  self-denial. 
Many  instances  of  this  kind  it  was  my  plea 
sant  lot  to  witness,  during  my  abode  in  this 
happy  family. 

The  winter  was  half  over,  when  Mrs.  Lynn 
sat  down  one  morning  in  the  parlour,  and 
began  to  take  the  trimming  off  her  straw  bon 
net.  While  she  was  doing  this,  Mrs.  Freeman 
came  in.  When  she  had  rested  a  little,  she 
cast  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Lynn's  bonnet. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  bon 
net,  Harriet  ?" 

"  I  was  caught  in  a  storm  yesterday,  which 
drenched  my  ribands,  and  has  made  it  abso 
lutely  necessary  that  my  bonnet  should  be 
pressed  and  new-trimmed.  I  can  do  it  myself, 
and  I  must  make  this  bonnet  last  me  all  winter." 

"  You  wore  it  all  last  summer,  Harriet  ?" 

"  I  did,"  answered  Mrs.  Lynn. 

«'  And  all  this  winter  I  think  ?" 

"Even  so,"  said  Mrs.  Lynn,  smiling.  "I 
cannot  afford  a  new  bonnet  until  next  sum 
mer,  if  I  live  so  long." 


40  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

"  James  Lynn  has  a  good  wife,"  said  Mrs. 
Freeman,  affectionately  returning  Mrs.  Lynn's 
smile,  "but  since  I  find  you  making  it  do,  as 
Mrs.  Sedgwick  says,  I  am  afraid  my  errand 

« 

will  come  to  little  speed." 

"  What  is  your  errand,  my  dear  madam  ?" 
Mrs.  Freeman  was  past  sixty.  She  had 
been  beautiful,  and  still  retained  traces  of  her 
youthful  loveliness  in  her  smooth  fair  skin, 
and  delicate  hands  and  feet.  Those  hands, 
though  weakened  by  age,  were  ever  stretched 
forth  to  the  needy ;  and  those  feet  were  never 
weary  of  going  about  to  do  good.  She  had 
little  money  to  bestow,  but  she  had  time,  acti 
vity,  good-will,  and  good  sense  ;  and  all  these 
she  employed  right  heartily  in  the  service  of 
her  fellow-creatures.  To  those  who  were  ready 
to  give  money,  food,  or  clothing,  but  were 
unable  or  unwilling  to  give  time,  Mrs.  Free 
man  was  a  wise  and  willing  almoner.  She 
visited  familiarly  the  dwellings  of  the  poor; 
ascertained  the  nature  and  extent  of  their 
wants,  and  listened  patiently  to  their  com- 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  41 

plaints.  She  watched  and  prayed  with  the 
sick,  prepared  their  food,  and  administered  their 
medicines.  She  taught  ignorant  wives  how 
best  to  economize  their  scanty  stores,  and 
helped  overburdened  mothers  to  cut  out  and 
make  up  the  clothing  she  procured  for  them. 
And  on  Sundays,  the  group  of  little  faces, 
brightening  when  she  entered  the  Sabbath- 
school,  told  of  her  usefulness  there.  "  Silver 
and  gold  have  I  none"  said  the  Apostle,  "  but 
such  as  I  have  give  I  fhee." 

And  the  gift  was  blessed. 

Mrs.  Freeman  explained  that  she  had  been 
to  see  a  poor  family,  and  was  requested  to  visit 
the  lodgers  in  the  room  above  them.  She  found 
a  husband  and  wife  in  a  state  of  dreadful  des 
titution.  The  man  lay  ill  of  a  rheumatic  fever, 
and  the  woman,  by  working  long  at  her  needle 
in  a  smokey  room,  and  by  a  dim  light,  had 
ruined  her  eyes,  and  was  now  scarcely  able  to 
see  her  way  about  their  wretched  chamber. 
A  straw-pallet  on  the  floor  was  their  bed ;  a 

single   thin   counterpane   their  covering,     All 

4* 


42  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

the  rest  of  their  bedding  had  been  pledged  or 
sold,  to  keep  them  from  starving.  They  had 
neither  food  nor  fuel,  and  hardly  clothes  to 
cover  them. 

"  I  sent  them  some  provisions,  and  a  quarter 
dollar's  worth  of  wood,  from  a  neighbouring 
shop,"  continued  Mrs.  Freeman,  "  to  supply 
their  immediate  wants.  Mrs.  Holbert  and  Miss 
Ward  will  give  them  some  clothing  ;  Mrs.  Dun 
can  has  sent  them  a  warm  comfortable,  and 
Dr.  Barnes  will  attend  them.  I  am  now  trying 
to  collect  money  to  buy  them  half  a  cord  of 
wood.  Can  you  assist  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Lynn  took  out  her  purse  and  counted 
its  contents. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  nothing  to  spare  to 
day,"  said  she  thoughtfully.  "  We  do  not  re 
ceive  any  money  until  the  end  of  this  month, 
and  after  we  have  paid  our  quarter's  rent, 
(which  is  due  to-morrow,)  I  shall  have  barely 
enough  for  house-keeping  expenses.  I  wish" 
— her  eye  fell  on  the  bonnet ;  she  paused,  coun 
ted  her  money  again,  and  took  from  the  sum 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  43 

half  a  dollar,  which  she  presented  to  Mrs  Free 
man. 

"  Now  tell  me,  candidly,  Harriet ;  how 
have  you  contrived  to  spare  this  half  dollar?" 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Lynn,  smiling  and  slightly 
blushing,  "you  know  it  is  necessary  for  me  to 
calculate  my  resources,  even  to  a  cent.  I  had 
allowed  a  dollar  and  a  half  to  buy  lining 
and  trimming  for  my  bonnet.  I  can  make  a 
smaller  quantity  of  riband  do,  and  the  half  dol 
lar  saved  will  help  to  buy  the  wood." 

Little  George,  while  shaping  a  bit  of  stick 
into  a  boat,  listened  attentively  to  this  dia 
logue,  and  the  lesson  was  not  lost. 

A  few  days  afterward,  while  the  family 
were  at  dinner,  Mrs.  Lynn  said  to  her  hus 
band — "  Did  you  call  at  Mrs.  Pond's  to-day, 
about  the  place  for  Ellen  ?" 

"  I  did,  and  Ellen  went  immediately.  Poor 
Mrs.  Pond  was  very  low-spirited.  Her  hus 
band  is  still  out  of  employ;  she  has  had  no 
needlework  to  do  since  the  last  Mrs.  Freeman 
sent  her ;  and  Christopher,  who  earned  a  little 


44  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

by  going  on  errands,  has  taken  such  a  violent 
cold  that  he  can  hardly  sit  up." 

«  How  did  he  get  such  a  cold,  papa  ?"  asked 
George. 

"  His  shoes  are  worn  out,  my  dear ;  he  is 
not  a  hardy  child,  and  the  weather  has  been 
so  wet  and  cold  that  he  surfers  severely.  My 
love,"  (to  Mrs.  Lynn,)  "  have  you  no  old  shoes 
to  spare  ?" 

Mrs.  Lynn  shook  her  head.  "  I  gave  Em 
ma's  old  shoes  to  black  Polly,  last  week,  and 
George's  would  not  be  large  enough." 

"  Papa,"  said  the  little  boy,  as  they  arose 
from  the  table,  "  you  know  you  promised  me 
a  pair  of  skates,  if  I  did  not  miss  my  lessons 
for  a  month." 

"I  did,  George." 

"  Papa,  I  have  earned  the  skates ;  hav'n't 
I,  mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  darling ;  you  have  said  your  lessons 
perfectly  during  the  last  month." 

"  Papa,  will  a  pair  of  thick  shoes  cost  more 
than  a  pair  of  skates  ?" 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  45 

"  Not  quite  so  much  as  a  very  good  pair." 

"  Well,  then,  papa,  if  you  will  take  the 
money  my  skates  would  cost,  and  buy  poor 
Christy  a  pair  of  shoes,  I  will  go  without  the 
skates." 

"  Very  well,  my  son ;  but  you  had  better 
not  decide  too  quickly.  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
afford  you  a  pair  of  skates  this  winter,  if  I 
buy  the  shoes  for  Christy.  I  am  going  to  be 
busy  for  half  an  hour ;  take  that  time  to  think, 
and  make  up  your  mind." 

With  a  very  important  face,  George  sat 
down  by  the  window  to  think.  Visions  of 
skates  with  bright  steel  runners,  painted 
woods,  and  stout  straps,  floated  before  him. 
He  thought  of  merry  parties  on  the  brick-pond, 
and  he  dwelt  much  on  the  triumph  of  display 
ing  his  handsome  new  skates  before  a  certain 
Bill  Mackey,  whose  fine  skates  and  disobliging 
temper,  had  given  some  offence  to  little  George. 
"It  would  be  so  pleasant  on  the  brick-pond, 
and  Fred.  Clarke  will  be  so  glad,  and  my  skates 
will  be  nicer  than  Bill  Mackey's,  for  the  red 


46  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

paint  is  worn  off  his,  now.  And  it  is  growing 
so  cold — the  streets  are  covered  with  sleet — 
it  will  be  such  grand  skating  to-morrow." 
George  hesitated.  He  felt  as  if  he  could  not 
give  up  the  skates.  He  looked  out  of  the 
window — a  half-clad  shivering  child  was  shuff 
ling  along  the  pavment,  dragging  a  basket  of 
chips,  and  his  red,  swollen  feet  were  visible 
through  his  torn  and  and  mud-soaked  shoes, 
"  Poor  Christopher !  do  his  feet  look  so  ?" 

Mr.  Lynn  closed  his  book.   "  Well,  George." 

"  Papa,  I  have  chosen.  Buy  the  shoes  for 
Christy." 

"  What !  will  you  dive  up  doin  on  the  brit- 
pond  ?"  inquired  little  Harriet,  who  had  been 
the  confidant  of  her  brother's  glorious  antici 
pations. 

George's  throat  swelled,  but  he  answered 
manfully — "Harriet,  poor  Christy  is  barefoot. 
I  can  do  better  without  skates  than  he  can 
without  shoes.  Say,  papa,  will  you  ?" 

u  Surely,  my  dear  boy,"  said  his  father,  em- 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  47 

bracing  him,  "  and  bless  God  for  putting  the 
thought  into  your  young  heart. 

The  shoes  were  bought  that  evening,  and 
the  happy  little  George  was  permitted  to  carry 
them  to  Christopher. 


"  Mamma,  what  is  sensibility  ?" 

"  That,  Emma,  is  one  of  the  questions  more 
easily  asked  than  answered.  What  do  you 
think  it  is?" 

"  I  thought  it  meant  feeling  so  sorry  for  other 
people's  pain  or  grief,  that  you  wanted  to  do 
any  thing  in  the  world  for  them.'7 

"A  very  good  definition" — began  Mrs.  Lynn, 
but  Mr.  Lynn  interrupted  her — "  Of  yonr 
mother's  sensibility,  hey,  Emma?" 

"  Yes,  papa  :  just  that — because  I  once  heard 
Mrs.  Freeman  tell  Mr.  West,  that  mamma  was 
a  woman  of  real  sensibility.  But  there  are 
two  kinds  of  sensibility,  papa." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 


48  SCENES   AT    HOME. 

"  Why,  mamam,  you  know  the  afternoon 
I  spent  with  Mary  Earle.  Mrs.  Earle  wanted 
to  send  a  message  to  Mrs.  Dunbar,  so  she  wrote 
a  note,  and  Mary  asked  her  mother  to  let  us 
take  it.  So  we  went,  and  Mrs.  Dunbar  was 
sitting  in  the  parlour  with  another  lady,  and 
the  asked  us  to  sit  down  while  she  answered 
the  note.  While  she  was  writing,  the  nurse 
came  in,  and  said — 'Ma'am,  the  Doctor  says  Ro 
bert  must  be  bled  ;  and  he  is  crying  for  you.  He 
says  he  wouldn't  mind  it  if  he  might  sit  in  your 
lap.'  '  Oh  !  nurse  ,'  said  Mrs.  Dunbar,  'I  can't 
think  of  coming.  I  never  could  bear  the  sight 
of  blood.  I  should  faint  away  in  a  minute.  Tell 
Robert  to  let  you  hold  him,  nurse,  and  be  a 
brave  boy  and  he  shall  have  a  rocking-horse  when 
he  gets  well.'  So  the  nurse  went  away  looking 
quite  vexed,  and  Mrs.  Dunbar  turned  to  the 
other  lady,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes 
and  said,'  I  uever  could  bear  to  see  the  poor 
dear  boy  bled.  I  should  be  quite  ill  .' 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  creature,'  said  the  other  lady, 
'  you  have  so  much  sensibility.' " 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  49 

"  Selfish,  unfeeling  woman  !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Lynn. 

"  I  thought  it  was  queer,  papa ;  for  when 
George  and  Harriet  had  the  measles,  mamma 
scarcely  left  them  night  or  day,  she  held  them 
on  her  lap,  sung  to  them,  told  them  stories 
and  gave  them  all  their  food  and  physic  her 
self.  And  when  Betsy  had  such  a  bad  hand, 
mamma  dressed  it  every  day.  I  know  she 
did  not  like  to  do  such  things,  for  once  after  the 
hand  was  dressed  she  nearly  fainted  ;  and  Maria 
said,  "Why  don't  you  let  somebody  else  do  that 
for  Betsy,  if  it  makes  you  so  sick  ?'  And  mam 
ma  said — I  remember  it  so  well ! — '  How  can  I 
ask  another  to  do  that  which  /  shrink  from 
doing?'  " 

"  That  was  like  your  mother.  Emma,  I 
hope  you  will  resemble  her." 

"  I'll  try,  papa.  But  about  sensibility. 
— What  kind  of  sensibility  was  that,  when 
Mrs.  Dunbar  would  not  go  to  her  sick  child  ?" 

"  My  dear  girl,  sensibility,  like  current  coin, 

is  often  counterfeited.     As  you  grow  older,  I 
5 


50  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

hope  you  will  learn  to  distinguish  them, '  for 
the  tree  is  known  by  its  fruit.'  But  let  ns  gd 
back  to  your  definition  of  sensibility.  That 
pity  for  another's  pain,  which  makes  us  wish 
to  relieve  it." 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  St.  James  will  tell  you,  '  If  a  brother  or 
sister  be  naked  and  destitute  of  daily  food,  and 
one  of  you  say  unto  them,  Depart  in  peace,  be 
ye  warmed  and  filled ;  notwithstanding  ye  give 
them  not  these  things  which  are  needful  to  the 
body,  what  doth  it  profit  ?'  " 

"Well,  papa?" 

"  Try  sensibility  by  that  test,  Emma.  If 
what  you  feel  for  another's  sufferings,  does  not 
only  make  you  wish,  but  strive  to  relieve  it, 
call  the  feeling  by  what  name  you  please,  its 
real  one  is  selfishness.  I  remember  two  little 
anecdotes,"  continued  Mr.  Lynn.  "  A  gentle 
man,  one  bleak  day,  saw  a  poor  sickly-looking 
woman,  weeding  in  a  garden.  A  thin,  pale 
child,  about  nine  years  old,  half  clothed,  and 
blue  with  cold,  stood  with  her  arms  wrapped 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  51 

in  her  apron,  looking  sorrowfully  at  the  weeder. 
The  gentleman  asked  the  gardener  some  ques 
tions,  and  found  that  the  weeder  was  the  girl's 
mother.  The  woman  had  been  ill,  and  was 
still  unable  to  do  much  work.  '  And  the  child 
is  so  fond  of  her  mother,  and  -so  sorry  for  her, 
sir,'  said  the  gardener,  'that  no  matter  what 
the  weather  is,  she  stands  all  day  by  her  mo 
ther's  side,  just  as  you  see  her  now.'  " 

"  That  was  foolish  sensibility,  papa.  She 
had  better  have  tried  to  help  her  mother,  I 
think." 

"  True.  This  child's  feelings  were  sincere, 
indeed,  but  they  were  not  properly  exercised, 
therefore  they  were  useless.  Worse  than  use 
less  ;  for  by  standing  inactive  on  the  damp 
ground,  she  probably  took  cold,  fell  ill,  and 
added  to  her  mother's  troubles." 

"  The  other  story,  papa." 

"  Two  little  girls  saw  a  poor  boy  collecting 
dry  sticks.  They  learned  that  he  was  weak 
and  hungry,  and  would  be  beaten  if  he  went 
home  without  a  large  bundle  of  sticks  They 


52  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

gave  him  their  breakfast;  and  while  he  ate  at 
it  gathered  sticks  for  him." 

That  was  tvise.  sensibility,  papa ;  they  not 
only  pitied  the  poor  boy,  but  helped  him. 
And  Ruth  had  more  sensibility  than  Orpah, 
papa,  for  <  Orpah  kissed  her  mother-in-law, 
but  Ruth  clave  unto  her.'  " 

"And  remember,  Emma,  that  kind  actions 
double  their  worth  when  performed  in  a  plea 
sant  manner;  for 

'  With  ill  grace  conferr'd, 
Crowns,  to  a  feeling  mind,  less  joy  impart, 
Than  trifles,  offered  by  a  willing  heart.'  " 

Mrs.  Lynn  unlocked  her  book-case  and  took 
from  the  upper  shelf  a  small,  thick,  black-look 
ing  volume,  which  she  gave  to  Emma. 

"  What  an  odd-looking  book  !  '  Dramatic 
Dialogues.'  Oh  !  that's  nice  ;  what  frightful 
pictures.  Where  did  it  come  from,  mamma  ?" 

"  That  book  was  the  delight  of  my  child 
hood,  Emma,  when  books  for  children  were 
not  so  plentiful  as  they  are  now.  I  have  kept 
it  carefully,  for  I  believe  another  copy  could 
scarcely  be  found  in  America." 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  53 

-  «  May  I  read  it  all  ?" 

"  Not  at  present.  One  of  the  Dialogues  is 
called,  <  False  and  True  Sensibility.''  It 
gave  me  my  first  accurate  ideas  on  the  subject. 
You  may  read  that." 

"  But  the  first  dialogue,  mamma — <  Laura, 
or  the  Little  Idler.'     Look  at  her  bureau, 
with  all  the   drawers   open,   and  the  things 
hanging  out.    May  I  read  that  ?" 

"You  may,  Emma,"  replied  her  mother, 
archly,  «if  you  know  any  little  girl  whose 
drawers  are  kept  like  Laura's." 

"  Oh !  mamma,"  said  Emma,  laughingly, 
<  now  that  is  not  fair.  I  have  never  left  my 
things  about,  since  you  made  me  learn  '  Slo 
venly  Flora.' " 

"  Tell  me  dat  tory."  said  little  Harriet. 

"  Jump  in  my  lap,  Harrie,  and  1  will." 

SLOVENLY  FLORA. 

Little  Flora  though  really  a  beautiful  child, 

Was  always  disgusting  to  see ;  . 

Her  hands  were  so  dirty,  her  apron  so  soil'd, 
'ler  pretty  black  curls  so  entangled  and  wild, 

No  scullion  more  filthy  than  she. 
5* 


54  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

In  vain  her  kind  mother  endeavoured  to  train 

Her  daughter  to  habits  more  nice ; 
She  would  listen  and  promise ;  but  in  half  a  day, 
From  her  heedless  young  mind  would  alike  pass  away, 

Remonstrance,  reproof,  and  advice. 

One  morning  her  brother  came  running  up  stairs — 

"  Oh !  Mary,  and  Flora,  and  Sue ; 
Come  quick  to  the  parlour,  for  uncle  is  there, 
With  beautiful  pictures  among  us  to  share  ; 
But  he  says  he  has  not  many  minutes  to  spare 

And  told  me  to  hurry  for  you." 

So  Mary  and  Susan,  who  always  look'd  neat, 

At  once  to  the  parlour  ran  down  ; 
But  Flora,  as  usual,  in  slovenly  case, 
Her  hair  all  uncomb'd  and  all  dirty  her  face, 

And  scarcely  a  hook  to  her  gown ; 

Must  run  to  the  nursery,  and  beg  to  be  dressed 

And  hurry  to  scrub  her  hands  clean ; 
But  her  combs  were  astray,  and  her  shoe-strings  untied, 
And  her  frock  to  be  mended — in  vain  Flora  tried 

To  make  herself  fit  to  be  seen. 

At  last  she  was  ready,  but  long  before  that, 

The  pictures  and  uncle  were  gone  ; 
And  uncle  had  made  to  each  little  niece, 
A  present  of  two  little  pictures  apiece ; 

But  slovenly  Flora  got  none. 

"And  now  get  down,  Harrie,  dear,  for  I 
must  go  and  study  my  Sunday-school  lesson. 


Mr.  and  Mrs.   Lynn   observed  the  utmost 


THE    LYNN   FAMILY.  55 

regularity  in  the  distribution  of  their  time,  and 
enforced  punctuality  on  every  member  of  their 
household.      The    business   of  one   day  was 
never,  except  in  case  of  unforeseen  accident, 
allowed  to  encroach   upon  the  next ;  conse 
quently,  all  domestic  duties  were  easily  and 
thoroughly  performed.     They  were  as  careful 
of  other  people's  time  as  of  their  own.     Mr. 
Lynn  settled  his  bills  at  stated  seasons;  the 
bag  of  clothes   was  always  ready  when  the 
washer-woman   called  for  it ;  Betsy's   wages 
were  paid  every  Saturday  morning ;  and  if  Mrs. 
Lynn,  in  her  visits  of  charity,  desired  any  poor 
person  to  call  at  her  house  for  food,  medicine, 
or  clothing,  the  articles  promised  were  always 
prepared  at  the  appointed  hour.  Promises  made 
to  the    children  were  rigidly  kept,  their  little 
possessions  never    interfered  with,  and    their 
play-time  never,  if  it  could  be   avoided,  en 
croached  upon.     Thus  they  learned  the  value 
of  truth,  of  social  rights,  and  the  distinction  of 
property.      They   imitated    the  exactness  of 
their  parents,  and   deemed  it  disgraceful   to 


56  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

deliver  a  message  incorrectly,  or  forget  what 
they  had  planned  to  do  at  a  certain  time.  In 
short,  as  a  young  lady  visiter  observed  one 
day,  "  they  lived  more  like  the  good  people  in 
a  moral  tale,  than  a  real  family," 

They  had  some  agreeable  friends,  with 
whom  they  exchanged  social  evening  visits. 
The  ladies  brought  their  needle  work  ;  reading, 
conversation,  and  sometimes  a  little  music, 
formed  their  amusements;  a  basket  of  fruit 
or  a  few  cakes  made  by  Mrs.  Lynn,  sufficed 
for  refreshment.  On  these  occasions,  Emma 
was  permitted  to  sit  up  till  nine  o'clock.  As 
sisting  her  mother  in  attending  to  her  guests, 
or  seated  with  her  little  work-basket  she  list 
ened,  enjoyed  and  improved.  I  heard  more 
wit  and  wisdom  during  one  of  these  quiet 
evenings,  than  in  all  the  months  of  my  so 
journ  at  Mr.  Walcott's. 

When  the  short  winter  day  closed  in,  Mrs. 
Lynn  liked  to  sit  for  an  hour  before  tea,  with 
no  light  except  that  of  the  fire.  •  It  was  a  sea 
son  of  rest  to  the  parents,  and  delight  to  the 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  57 

children,  who  called  this  time  their  happy  hour. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Lynn  played  on  the  flute,  while 
the  children  danced ;  sometimes  he  told  them 
stories,  or  gave  them  riddles  to  guess ;  and  not 
unfrequently,  the  whole  party  united  in  some 
juvenile  sport.  One  evening,  the  father  and 
children  had  had  a  hearty  game  at  romps. 
When  they  were  weary  with  jumping,  and 
hoarse  with  laughing,  Mr.  Lynn  threw  him 
self  on  the  sofa.  Harriet  scrambled  up  to  sit 
beside  him ;  Emma  and  George  sat  down  be 
fore  the  sofa,  and  George's  little  dog,  Prince, 
who  had  contributed  his  full  quota  of  noise  and 
merriment  to  the  game,  curled  himself  up  on 
the  carpet  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  knee. 

"  How  snug  we  are !"  said  Emma,  after  a 
little  silence. 

"  Tell  us  a  story,  please,  papa,"  said  George. 

"  Tell  you  a  story  !  You  have  not  left  me 
breath  to  tell  one.  Ask  mamma,  who  sits 
there  so  demurely." 

Immediately  the  merry  sprites  capered  over 
to  Mrs.  Lynn,  and  preferred  their  petition. 


58  SCENES    AT    HOME, 

"Tell  us  Xailoun  the  Idiot,  if  you  please, 
mamma." 

"  The  Three  Caskets,  please,  mamma." 

"  No !  no !  please,  mamma  ittle  Mary  and 
her  tat." 

t  "  Tell  us  something  we  never  heard  before, 
mamma." 

Mrs.  Lynn  thought  for  a  moment,  and  be 
gan. 

"  When  I  was  about  your  age,  Emma,  my 
mother  went,  out  shopping  one  day,  and  took 
me  with  her.  It  was  a  bright,  bitter  morning 
in  January,  and  though  I  was  well  wrapped 
up,  I  felt  the  cold  severely.  We  stopped  at 
the  grocer's,  and  the  shoemaker's,  and  then 
we  went  to  a  dry-goods  store.  The  store 
keeper  knew  my  mother,  and  when  we  had 
bought  what  we  wanted,  she  told  us  of  a  poor 
widow  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  was  in 
great  distress.  So  my  mother  asked  where 
Mrs.  Marshall  lived,  and  said  she  would  go 
there  directly.  It  was  in  a  narrow  alley,  not 
far  from  the  store ;  a  mean,  old,  dirty,  tumble- 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  59 

down  house,  with  a  family  in  every  room. 
Mrs.  Marshall  lived  in  the  garret.  When  we 
went  in,  we  found  her  in  bed.  She  had  very 
few  bed-clothes,  and  there  was  no  fire  in  the 
room.  My  mother  talked  to  her,  and  found 
that  she  was  sick  with  liver  complaint,  and 
had  nothing  to  depend  on  but  her  daily  labour. 
She  had  worked  too  hard  the  week  before,  and 
was  not  able  to  leave  her  bed.  '  I  have  neither 
money,  victuals,  nor  fire-wood,  ma'am,  and  I 
ain't  able  to  earn  any,  and  what  will  become 
of  that  poor  boy,  God  only  knows' — and  the 
poor  woman  cried. 

"  I  looked  around,  and  saw  a  very  ragged, 
lean,  little  boy,  about  six  years  old,  sitting  on 
a  stool  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  eating  a  crust  of 
rye  bread. 

"  <  Don't  cry,  mamma,'  said  the  little  boy, 
cheerfully  ?  <  when  the  ladies  are  gone,  I'll  pray 
to  God  to  help  us.' 

"  My  mother  gave  the  child  some  money, 
and  told  him  to  go  and  buy  a  pound  of  coffee 
and  a  loaf  of  bread  for  his  mother.  When  he 


60  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

was  gone,  my  mother  said, '  Your  little  boy 
seems  well  instructed.'  <  Yes,  ma'am/  said 
Mrs.  Marshall,'  I  got  him  in  the  Infant  School 
when  he  was  two  years  old,  and  I  have  never 
kept  him  a  day  at  home  when  he  was  able  to 
go.  It's  a  great  comfort  to  me,  lying  here  as  I 
am,  to  hear  him  say  Scripture  texts  and  hymns. 
He  never  misses  his  prayers,  night  or  morning. 
Oh !  ma'am,  I  have  reason  to  bless  that  Infant 
School.  1  never  knew  Johnny  to  tell  a  lie  in  his 
life ;  and  he  would  not  lay  a  finger  on  what 
was  not  his  own,  if  he  was  starving.' 

"  By  this  time  Johnny  came  back.  My 
mother  promised  to  send  some  wood  and 
other  comforts  as  soon  as  possible ;  and  as  we 
went  down  stairs,  she  stopped  at  one  of  thev 
rooms,  and  engaged  a  woman  to  nurse  Mrs. 
Marshall.  My  sisters  and  1  worked  very  hard 
that  day,  to  mend  up  some  old  clothes  for 
Johnny  and  his  mother ;  and  my  brother 
Charles  begged  leave  to  give  Johnny  a  plaid 
cloak  which  he  had  outgrown.  Poor  fellow  ! 
he  jumped  for  joy  when  he  came  for  the 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  61 

clothes,  and  Charles  threw  a  cloak  over  his 
shoulders,  and  told  him  he  might  keep  it. 

"  Mrs.  Marshall  was  sometimes  better  and 
sometimes  worse.  She  worked  when  she  was 
able,  and  my  mother  and  other  ladies  helped 
her,  but  she  suffered  a  good  deal.  When 
Johnny  was  about  nine  years  old,  he  went  out 
one  Saturday  morning  after  breakfast,  and  did 
not  come  home  till  near  noon.  '  Oh  !  Johnny/ 
said  Mrs.  Marshall,  <  where  have  you  been  ?' 
— <  Mother,'  said  Johnny,  <  I  am  old  enough  to 
earn  my  own  living.  I  don't  want  to  be  a 
burden  on  you  any  longer,  I've  been  to  look 
for  a  place." 

"  <  And  did  you  get  one,  Johnny  ?'  said  Mrs. 
Marshall. 

"'Yes,  mother,  and  the  man  I'm  hired  to 
will  be  here  presently  to  speak  to  you  about 
me.' 

"  Mrs.  Marshall  asked  him  how  he  had 
managed.  Johnny  said  he  went  and  stood 
in  the  market,  and  looked  at  the  farmers  as 

they  came  in  with  their  wagons,  and  when  he 
6 


62  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

saw  one  that  looked  good-natured,  he  asked 
him  if  he  wanted  to  hire  a  boy.  At  last  he 
met  with  one  that  did. 

"The  farmer  came,  and  agreed  to  take 
Johnny  on  a  trial  for  a  month,  and  if  they 
were  mutually  satisfied,  to  have  him  bound 
till  he  was  twenty-one  years  old.  So  Johnny 
went  away  with  his  master." 

"And  did  he  stay  there,  mamma?"  asked 
George. 

"  You  shall  hear.  The  day  after  the  month 
was  up,  Johnny  came  home.  He  looked  very 
serious,  and  said  he  was  not  going  back  again. 
His  mother  asked  him  if  he  had  been  ill- 
treated.  No;  they  had  been  very  kind,  in 
deed. — Had  he  enough  to  eat  and  drink  ? 
Plenty  of  the  best. — Was  his  work  too  hard  ? 
Nothing  but  what  he  could  do  very  well. — 
Was  his  master  satisfied?  Yes,  his  master 
wanted  him  to  stay.  'Then  why  did  you 
come  away,  Johnny  ?'  Johnny  made  no  an 
swer.  Then  his  mother  was  frightened,  <  Oh ! 
Johnny,'  said  she, '  I  am  afraid  you  have  done 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  63 

something  wrong.'  Johnny  burst  out  crying. 
'No,  indeed,  mother;  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong.'  <  Then  why  won't  you  go  back  ?' 
i  Mother,'  said  Johnny,  wiping  away  his  tears 
and  looking  very  earnest,  '  my  master  laughs 
at  the  Bible,  and  does  not  love  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  I  cannot  live  with  a  man  that  calls  the 
Holy  Bible  a  pack  of  lies.  Mother,  I  won't 
be  a  burden  on  you.  I'll  get  another  place, 
but  I  can't  live  with  people  that  don't  love  my 
Saviour.' 

«  Poor  Mrs.  Marshall  kissed  her  dear  little 
boy,  and  they  had  scarcely  done  crying,  when 
the  farmer  came.  He  was  very  sorry  to  lose 
Johnny,  for  he  said  he  was  the  best  little  boy 
he  had  ever  employed.  He  offered  to  bring 
Johnny  up  as  his  own  child  (for  he  was  a  rich 
man,)  if  he  would  come  back;  but  Johnny 
was  firm.  No  offers  would  tempt  him  to  cast 
in  his  lot  with  those  who  did  not  serve  the 
Lord.* 

*  A  fact.    It  happened  almost  word  for  word  as  Mrs.  Lynn 
relates  it. 


64  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

"Johnny  soon  got  another  place,  and  this 
time  it  was  in  a  pious  family,  for  God  leads 
those  who  trust  in  Him  by  ways  they  know 
not.  His  master  loved  him  very  much,  for 
Johnny  was  a  faithful  Christian  servant ;  and 
his  wife  dying  soon  after,  he  hired  Mrs.  Mar 
shall  for  house-keeper.  The  country  air  and 
good  living,  soon  restored  her  health ;  and 
she  lived  to  see  her  little  Johnny  grow  up  a 
pious,  sensible,  useful  man." 

"  And  what  has  become  of  him,  mamma  ?" 

«  He  has  a  large  farm  of  his  own,  now ;  he 
is  married,  has  a  good  wife,  and  six  nice  chil 
dren.  Do  you  remember  the  two  fine  turkeys, 
and  the  barrel  of  pippins,  that  were  sent  to 
your  grandmother  last  Christmas  ?" 

"  Yes,  surely,  mamma.  Was  that  Mr.  Mar 
shall,  little  Johnny  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  is  now  a  wealthy,  influential 
man,  but  he  still  remembers  with  gratitude 
those  who  befriended  his  childhood." 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  65 

«•'  Papa  is  coming  up  the  steps.  I'll  run  and 
open  the  front  door,"  said  George. 

"  My  dear  husband,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
How  pale  you  look  !" 

Mr.  Lynn  gave  Emma  his  hat,  and  without 
speaking,  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  Mrs.  -Lynn, 
somewhat  alarmed,  seated  herself  beside  him, 
and  took  his  hand.  Emma  closed  her  work- 
box,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  parlour.'  <  Don't 
go,  my  Emma,  your  parents  have  no  secrets 
from  their  children.  Sit  down  beside  papa, 
and  I  will  tell  you  and  mamma  what  has  wor 
ried  me.  Mr.  Bennett,  you  know,  though  a 
thorough  man  of  business,  is  rather  eccentric. 
He  has  been  in  and  out  of  the  counting-house 
lately,  in  a  fidgety  sort  of  a  way,  and  has  said 
several  things  which  I  have  been  puzzled  to 
understand.  This  evening  we  left  the  counting- 
house  together,  and  as  we  parted  at  the  corner 
of  the  street,  he  said,  with  a  very  peculiar  look, 
'  Good-bye,  Lynn.  I've  a  notion  your  services 
as  clerk  won't  be  called  for  much  longer.'  I 

was  too  much  surprised  to  speak,  and  before  I 
6* 


66  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

could  recover  myself,  he  had  turned  the  corner 
and  was  gone." 

"  This  is  strange — did  he  speak  angrily  ?" 

"  By  no  means ;  and  odd  as  he  is,  I  have 
never  known  him  capricious  or  unjust.  I  know 
that  I  have  done  my  duty  by  him.  I  cannot 
understand  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  Ask  an  explanation  the  first  thing  to-mor 
row.  It  may  he  that  he  intends  to  discharge 
me.  If  so,  it  cannot  be  helped." 

"  Your  high  character,  my  dear  husband,  will 
soon  procure  you  another  situation." 

"  Perhaps  not,  Harriet.  Times  are  very  hard 
just  now.  However,  God's  will  be  done  !" 

"  Amen,"  fervently  responded  his  wife.  "  We 
have  health  and  strength ;  heads,  hands,  and 
hearts;  we  shall  be  able  to  make  a  living; 
never  fear  it.  So  long  as  I  have  you  and  my 
children,"  clasping  his  hand,  and  pressing  it 
against  her  heart,  "I  can  be  happy  any 
where.'' 

"Dear  papa,"  cried  Emma,   bursting  into 


THE    LTNN    FAMILY.  67 

\ 

tears,  and  clinging  round  her  father's  neck,  « I 
will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  and  mamma." 

Little  Harriet,  who  had  till  now  been  stand 
ing  beside  her  mother,  with  an  exceedingly 
puzzled  expression  of  countenance,  compre 
hended  just  enough  of  what  was  said,  to  per 
ceive  that  want  of  money  had  something  to  do 
with  the  painful  agitation  she  witnessed.  Run 
ning  to  the  little  box  in  which  she  kept  her 
baby  wealth,  she  took  out  a  long-hoarded  half 
dollar,  and  delightedly  placed  it  in  her  father's 
hand.  "  Dere  papa,  oo  sail  have  my  half-dol 
lar;  oo  sail  have  it  all.  Don't  ky,  Emma. 
Take  it,  papa." 

"  My  precious  children  !  my  noble  wife  !" 
said  Mr.  Lynn.  He  embraced  his  children,  and 
leaned  his  head  on  his  wife's  shoulder. 

"  Papa,"  said  George,  coming  in  with  a 
letter  in  his  hand,  « Betsey  told  me  to  bring 
you  this.  She  says  a  man  just  left  it." 

« Mr.  Bennett's  hand !"  exclaimed  Mr 
Lynn,  as  he  took  the  letter.  Dreading  he 
knew  not  what,  he  hastily  opened  it,  glanced 


68  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

over  the  contents,  dropped  it,  and  clasped  his 
wife  in  his  arms. 

"Good  news?"  eagerly  asked  Mrs.  Lynn, 
catching  the  altered  expression  of  his  face. 

"  My  generous  friend !     Read,  dearest  Har 
riet,  read." 

Mrs.  Lynn  read — 

DEAR  LYNN  : — Your  sudden  change  of 
countenance  as  we  parted  to-day,  has  made 
me  fear  that  in  my  desire  to  give  you  an  agree 
able  surprise,  I  have  trifled  with  your  feelings. 
I  could  not  sleep  to-night  if  I  thought  your 
rest  was  disturbed,  so  I  hasten  to  tell  you  that 
when  I  hinted  that  your  services  as  clerk  would 
not  be  required  much  longer,  I  meant  you  to 
understand  that  next  week  you  become  my 
partner.  Your  long,  faithful,  and  most  valu 
able  services,  have  fully  deserved  this  of  me. 
Your  sincere  friend, 

JACOB  BENNETT. 

P.  S. — My  love  to  Mrs.  L.  and  children. 


THE    LYNN    FAMILY.  69 

The  Lynns  had  too  much  good  sense  to 
make  any  material  alteration  in  their  mode 
of  living,  until  they  ascertained  what  they 
could  prudently  afford.  They  still  inhabited 
their  quiet  dwelling,  and  occupied  themselves 
in  their  daily  duties.  I  did  not  so  often  see 
Mrs.  Lynn  busied  in  repairing  her  own  and 
her  children's  garments :  new  books  appeared 
more  frequently  on  the  tables,  and  she  spared 
a  little  more  time  for  reading. 

"  You  have  so  few  personal  wants.  Is  there 
nothing  you  would  like  to  have  ?"  said  her 
husband. 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  Since  you  bought 
me  that  copy  of  Crabbe,  and  those  splendid 
illustrations  of  Scott,  I  really  cannot  invent  a 
want." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  then,  my  dear 
wife  ?  I  value  these  increased  means  chiefly 
for  your  sake." 

Mrs.  Lynn  thanked  her  husband  with  an 
affectionate  smile,  and  replied, 

"  If  you  think  we  can  afford  it,  love,  I  should 


70  SCENES    AT    HOME, 

like  to  double  our  donation  to  Mr.  Allen's 
poor's  purse :  and  Emma  wishes  very  much 
to  take  lessons  in  drawing." 

"I  will  send  the  money  to  Mr.  Allen  in 
stantly,  and  see  Mr.  Smith  this  morning." 

Blessed  with  such  "  temperate  wishes,  just 
desires/'  the  Lynns  could  not  but  prosper. 
My  sojourn  in  this  happy  family,  however, 
drew  to  a  close.  Business  of  importance  re 
quired  Mr.  Lynn's  presence  in  England,  and 
as  he  did  not  expect  to  return  in  less  than  a 
year,  he  resolved  to  take  his  wife  and  children 
with  him.  They  sold  their  furniture,  and  in 
the  hurry  of  packing  and  arranging,  I  was 
thrown  into  a  drawer  of  the  work-stand,  and 
there  I  lay  forgotten,  until  after  the  sale. 


MRS.  BROWN'S  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


The  thousand  nameless  ills, 

That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life. — THOMSON. 


AT  length  the  drawer  was  opened,  and  by 
the  exclamation  of  the  young  person  who  took 
me  out,  I  found  that  she  had  not  been  aware 
of  my  presence. 

"  Look  mother  what  a  beautiful  fire-screen. 
I  suppose  it  was  left  in  the  stand  by  mistake. 
Can  we  send  it  back  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  where  to  send  it  child.  I 
bought  the  stand  at  Lynn's  sale.  They  are  in 
England  by  this  time,  and  I  don't  know  any 
folks  that  know  them." 

"  Well,  you  made  a  cheap  purchase  mother. 
Only  ten  dollars  for  the  stand,  and  a  handsome 
screen  beside.  How  it  sets  off  the  mantel 
piece  !  Our  rooms  look  right  handsome  ;  don't 

they  ?" 

71 


72  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

From  the  conversation  which  ensued,  1 
learned  that  Mrs.  Brown  was  a  widow  with 
four  children  brought  to  poverty  by  a  bad 
husband,  and  that  she  was  about  to  open  a 
boarding-house.  The  parlour  in  which  I  was 
placed,  with  a  handsome  bed-chamber  adjoin 
ing,  were  more  expensively  fitted  up  than  the 
rest  of  the  house,  Mrs.  Brown  intending  to  let 
them  at  a  higher  price,  to  boarders  who  wished 
for  a  private  parlour. 

Mrs.  Brown  had  been  pretty,  and  was  still 
pleasant  to  look  upon,  though  her  neat  figure 
was  somewhat  bent  by  toil,  and  her  features 
had  acquired  that  peculiar  sharpness,  seldom 
seen  but  in  those  who  have  long  combated 
with  want  and  care.  She  was  up  early  and 
down  late,  worked  harder  than  her  servants, 
and  brought  up  her  daughters  to  be  as  indus 
trious  and  managing  as  herself. 

Mrs.  Brown  had  been  established  some 
weeks,  and  had  obtained  half  a  dozen  board- 
ers,  but  the  two  best  rooms  were  not  yet  en 
gaged.  Poor  Mrs.  Brown  !  How  often,  day 


MRS.  BROWN'S  BOARDING-HOUSE.          73 

after  day,  was  she  called  from  her  household 
tasks  to  show  those  rooms  !  to  hear  objections 
to  the  furniture,  the  situation,  the  price ;  to 
answer  impertinent  questions  about  her  hours, 
her  table,  her  boarders ;  to  decline  unreason 
able  proposals  ;  and  once  or  twice,  people  ab 
solutely  engaged  the  rooms,  and  then  sent 
word  that  they  had  changed  their  minds.  I 
had  once  heard  Mrs.  Lynn  say,  "  People  who 
go  shopping  merely  for  amusement,  when  they 
do  not  purchase,  should  be  compelled  by  law 
to  pay  something  for  the  waste  of  time  and 
patience  they  occasion."  I  thought  it  would 
not  be  a  bad  thing  if  keepers  of  boarding-houses 
were  entitled  to  a  similar  remuneration. 

"Keeping  boardejs,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  as 
she  brought  in  a  dust-pan  and  a  brush,  to  take 
up  sundry  lumps  of  mud  which  two  gentlemen 
had  left  on  the  carpet,  "is  just  making  one's 
house  a  thoroughfare." 

At  last  a  young  lady  looked  at  the  rooms, 
asked  a  few  necessary  questions  in  a  polite, 
pleasant  manner,  and  engaged  them.  I  under- 


74  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

stood  that  herself  and  an  invalid  grandmother 
would  occupy  the  apartments,  and  as  the  old 
lady's  infirmities  required  constant  attention, 
they  should  bring  their  own  servant. 

"  If  it  be  quite  convenient  Mrs.  Brown,  we 
shall  come  this  evening."  Mrs.  Brown  said 
it  was  quite  convenient,  and  bidding  a  polite 
good-morning,  the  lady  departed. 

«  That 's  a  real  lady,  mother,"  said  Martha 
Brown  as  she  returned  from  seeing  the  stran 
ger  down  stairs. 

"  You  may  see  that  with  half  an  eye,  child  ; 
but  hurry  now,  get  fires  lighted  in  both  rooms, 
and  every  thing  to  rights.  Bless  my  life  ! 
there  's  one  o'clock  striking,  and  the  custards 
not  made  yet."  So  saying,  good  Mrs.  Brown 
bustled  away,  and  left  Martha  to  prepare  for 
the  reception  of  the  ladies. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  a  book-case, 
a  piano,  and  a  sofa,  were  sent,  and  about  eight 
in  the  evening,  Miss  Barton  and  her  grand 
mother  arrived.  Mrs.  Lorimer  being  much 
fatigued,  went  to  bed  immediately. 


AGE  AND  YOUTH. 


So  stands  an  aged  Elm  with  Ivy  bound- 
So  youthful  Ivy  clasps  an  Elm  around — PARNELL 


While  I  walk  life's  thorny  road 
Path  of  pain,  by  Jesus  trod  ; 
Lead  me  from  temptation's  snare, 
Be  my  shield  where  perils  are ! 
And  my  thankful  song  shall  be, 

Gloria  tibi,  Domine! 

When  the  weary  race  is  past, 
When  the  goal  is  reached  at  last ; 
When  sad  heart  and  aching  head ; 
In  the  grave  find  peaceful  bed ; 
When  the  ransomed  soul  shall  rise, 
All  exultant  to  the  skies; 
Still  my  joyful  song  shall  be, 

Gloria  tibi,  Domine. 

Miss  Barton  sang  these  words,  accompany 
ing  herself  on  the  piano.  The  door  between 
the  parlour  and  bed-room  stood  open,  and  at 

intervals,  a  sweet,  though  feeble  voice  within 

75 


76  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

the  bed-room,  joined  in  the  song  of  praise. 
When  Miss  Barton  had  finished  her  hymn,  she 
arose  took  up  a  Bible  that  lay  on  the  table 
and  went  into  the  bed-room,  closing  the  door 
after  her. 

Mrs.  Lorimer's  weakness  obliged  her  to  break 
fast  in  bed.  When  up  and  dressed,  she  was 
assisted  to  the  sofa,  which  she  seldom  quitted 
during  the  day.  She  was  truly  a  majestic  ruin. 
Aged,  infirm,  and  sickly,  but  patient  when  suf 
fering,  thankfully  cheerful  when  free  from  pain, 
the  light  of  divine  grace  shone  with  such  sweet 
lustre  through  her  pale  and  faded  features,  the 
constant  eommunings  of  her  soul  with  Heaven 
imparted  such  benignant  wisdom  to  her  speech, 
that  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  she~was  most 
loved  or  honoured.  She  had  a  large  circle  of 
pious  and  sensible  friends,  some  of  whom  fre 
quently  spent  the  ^vening  in  her  quiet  parlour, 
when  she  was  well  enough  to  see  company. 
Thus  Miss  Barton's  mind  and  manners  enjoyed 
all  the  advantages  of  mingling  habitually  in 
polished  society.  Mrs.  Lorimer  also  had  many 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  77 

juvenile  relations,  and  about  three  weeks  after 
her  arrival  at  Mrs.  Brown's,  one  of  her  grand- 
nieces  came  to  stay  under  her  care,  during 
a  temporary  absence  of  her  parents  from  Phila 
delphia. 

A  beautiful  creature  was  Joanna  Somers ! 
Just  thirteen,  but  without  the  angular  awk 
wardness  which  generally  accompanies  that 
age ;  fair,  fresh,  rosy,  and  sparkling.  High- 
spirited,  generous,  frank,  and  affectionate : 
conscious  of  her  beauty,  but  with  genius 
enough  to  value  the  charms  of  mind  above 
those  of  person,  Joanna  was  just  the  being  to 
enchant  a  poet,  perplex  a  philosopher,  and 
make  a  Christian  anxious.  As  a  child  she  had 
been  praised  for  her  beauty,  as  a  school-girl 
for  her  genius,  and  by  her  father's  visitors, 
flattered  for  both,  until  she  was  more  than 
half-spoiled.  She  was  proud,  violent,  volatile, 
and  idle.  She  loved  her  grand-  aunt,  and  that 
perception  of  the  beautiful,  which  is  a  charac 
teristic  of  genius,  made  her  admire,  though  she 
did  noi  understand,  Mrs.  Lorimer's  Christian 
7* 


78  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

virtues.  Nevertheless,  she  frequently  tried  the 
patience  of  the  old  lady  to  the  utmost.  Much 
has  been  said  of  the  selfishness  of  age.  It  is 
nothing  to  the  selfishness  of  youth. 

A  walking  party  had  been  arranged  by 
some  of  Joanna's  favourite  companions,  which 
she  anticipated  with  eager  impatience.  But 
the  appointed  day  arose  dark  and  threatening, 
and  before  ten  o'clock,  torrents  of  rain  gut  all 
walking  out  of  the  question. 

Joanna  opened  and  shut  a  dozen  volumes, 
played  half  a  waltz,  unlocked  her  drawing- 
box,  did  ten  stitches  in  her  lace  work,  copied 
three  lines  of  poetry,  and  began  a  letter  to 
her  mother.  But  the  untamed  wilfulness  of 
her  temper  prevailed,  and  she  gave  way  to  a 
violent  fit  of  ill-humour,  exclaiming  against 
the  weather,  and  declaring  that  she  was  always 
disappointed  in  every  thing  she  undertook. 

"  I  am  disappointed  too,"  said  Miss  Barton, 
"  for  I  had  a  very  particular  engagement  this 
morning;  but  I  am  very  comfortable,  never 
theless." 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  79 

Joanna  curled  her  beautiful  lip,  and  looked 
at  Miss  Barton  with  an  air  of  scornful  discon 
tent,  of  which  Miss  Barton,  who  was  sewing 
very  busily,  remained  quite  unconscious. 

"  I  would  not  be  such  an  oyster  as  you  are, 
cousin  Susan — I  do  not  believe  that  you  can 
feel." 

"  Susan  is  in  the  habit  of  feeling  so  much 
for  others,  Joanna,  that  she  forgets  to  feel  for 
herself,"  observed  Mrs.  Lorimer,  gravely. 

Joanna  tossed  her  head,  and  walked  to  the 
window.  «0h!  this  horrid,  horrid  rain;  I 
don't  know  what  on  earth  to  do.  I  have  no 
comfort  in  the  world." 

By  this  time  she  had  wrought  herself  into 
a  fever  of  vexation,  and  her  grand-aunt  was 
seriously  displeased  with  her  folly. 

"  Joanna,"  said  she,  taking  off  her  spectacles, 
and  laying  them  in  the  book  she  had  been  read 
ing,  for  the  young  lady's  restlessness  made  it 
impossible  for  her  to  go  on — "  you  remind  me 
of  a  novel  I  once  read." 


80  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

"A  novel !"  exclaimed  Joanna.  "  Oh!  aunt, 
did  you  ever  read  novels .?" 

"  Oftener  than  was  good  for  me,  my  dear." 

"  Why,  aunt,  do  you  think  it  wrong  to  read 
novels  ?" 

«  To  go  into  all  the  difficulties  of  that  ques 
tion,  would  require  more  time,  patience,  and 
wisdom,  than  either  you  or  I  can  command ; 
but  one  evil  certainly  attends  novel-reading." 

«  What  is  it,  aunt  ?" 

"  In  reading  narrative,  you  are  amused  with 
out  effort.  If  you  read  narratives  only,  for 
any  length  of  time,  the  mind,  unused  to  ex 
ertion,  grows  unwilling,  indeed,  unable  to  make 
any.  All  reading  which  requires  attention, 
becomes  distasteful.  Science  is  perplexing,  and 
history  dull.  Valuable  time  is  wasted,  bad 
habits  are  acquired,  the  mind  stands  still.  If 
the  novel-reader  at  length  finds  courage  to 
break  her  bonds,  she  must  do  it,  like  the  opium- 
eater,  at  the  expense  of  a  long  and  painful 
struggle.  I  speak  feelingly,  Joanna;  when  I 
was  a  child,  I  had  no  one  to  direct  my  reading ; 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  81 

I  wasted  much  of  my  time  over  idle  and  unpro 
fitable  books.  When  I  became  convinced  that 
I  was  doing  wrong,  the  weariness  and  disgust 
I  experienced  before  I  could  compel  my  at 
tention  to  more  serious  studies,  were  very,  very, 
painful.  Even  now,  so  strong  is  the  force  of 
early  habit,  I  prefer  narrative  to  any  other  kind 
of  reading." 

" Papa  says,  novels  are  mental  drams" 
"  Not  a  bad  comparison,  Joanna ;  but  I 
should  rather  liken  them  to  sweetmeats.  Very 
pleasant  and  not  unwholesome,  eaten  now 
and  then  in  small  quantities,  but  unfit  for  daily 
food." 

"  Then  you  don't  disapprove  of  novels, 
aunt,  just  because  they  are  inventions-,  like 
Miss  Simmons,  with  her  starched  face,  who 
says, « I  wonder,  Mrs.  Somers,  you  can  allow 
Joanna  to  read  novels,  which  are  nothing  but 

im* 

"  Many  well-meaning  people  take  that  view 
of  novels,  my  dear ;  but  I  do  not  disaporove 
of  narrative  fictions,  simply  as  fictions.  Va- 


82  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

luable  truths  are  not  less  valuable  when  plea 
singly  told." 

"  No,  indeed,  aunt- 
Example  strikes,  where  precept  fails, 
And  sermons  are  less  read  than  tales.'" 

Mrs.  Lorimer  smiled  at  Joanna's  quotation, 
who  continued — 

"I  am  sure  that's  true.  Miss  Edgeworth's 
Moral  Tales  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good; 
and  you  know,  aunt,  we  often  take  physic  in 
preserves." 

"  Yes,  Joanna ;  but  sometimes  the  sweet 
meat  lessens  the  effect  of  the  drug." 

"  Then  you  would  advise  me  to  give  up 
novel-reading  altogether,  aunt?" 

« I  am  afraid  that  would  be  requiring  too 
great  a  sacrifice  of  you,  Joanna,  who  have 
tasted  the  dangerous  luxury.  But  if  you  feel 
equal  to  the  effort,  (Joanna  erected  her  head, 
and  looked  equal  to  any  thing ;)  I  should  say, 
read  no  more  novels  for  some  years  to  come, 
at  least.  At  any  rate,  my  dear  child,  let  your 
indulgences  of  this  kind  be  very  rare ;  and  read 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  83 

no  work  of  fiction,  unless  recommended  by 
some  one  whose  moral,  as  well  as  critical  judg 
ment,  may  be  relied  on." 

"  Thank  you,  aunt.  I  should  not  like  to  give 
up  novels  altogether,  at  least,  till  I  have  read 
all  Walter  Scott's.  But  T  promise  you  that  I 
will  try  to  follow  your  advice.  And  now  the 
story,  if  you  please." 

"  It  is  of  a  shrewd,  sensible  girl,  who  had 
roughed  through  many  wants  arid  dangers.  At 
last  she  became  waiting-maid  to  a  spoiled  lady 
of  quality.  Her  ladyship  had  every  thing  to 
make  her  happy  but  one." 

"  What  was  that,  aunt  ?" 

"  Knowledge  of  her  own  blessings.  She  had 
never  known  suffering,  and  no  one  reminded 
her  how  bitterly  others  knew  it.  She  lay  on 
her  sofa,  day  after  day,  devoured  with  ennui, 
and  puzzling  the  doctor 

'To  name  the  nameless,  ever  new  disease,' 

She  took  no  exercise,  therefore  she  had  no  ap 
petite  ;  though  her  French  cook  excelled  him 
self,  she  declared  that  she  could  get  nothing  fit 


84  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

to  eat.  The  frown  of  habitual  discontent 
spoiled  her  pretty  face — and  she  laid  the  blame 
on  her  milliner.  If  she  rode,  the  carriage  jolted 
her  to  death  ;  if  she  thought  of  walking,  it  was 
sure  to  rain." 

Joanna  smiled,  and  blushed  a  little. 

"  Her  friends  were  tired  out  at  last,  and  the 
burden  of  her  weariness  fell  upon  her  waiting- 
maid.  Poor  Kitty  did  her  best  to  please,  to 
soothe,  and  to  amuse,  but  in  vain.  She  grew 
weary,  too ;  and  one  day,  in  answer  to  her 
lady's  constantly  repeated  drawl  of — « Oh  ! 
Kitty,  can  you  think  of  nothing  that  would  do 
me  good?' — Kitty  replied,  'Yes,  my  lady.  1 
think  I  could  cure  you,  if  you  would  follow  my 
advice/ 

« <  What  is  it  ?'  said  the  lady. 

u  (  Let  me  go  and  buy  two  coarse  gowns, 
my  lady,  and  you  and  I  will  put  them  on. 
Then  we  will  go  and  rent  a  garret  in  some  by 
street,  and  work  for  our  living.  I  will  take  in 
washing,  and  you  shall  take  in  sewing,  my 
lady.  I  will  cook  and  scrub,  and  you  shall 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  85 

make  the  bed  and  sweep  the  room.  We  will 
have  brown  bread  and  bohea  for  breakfast' — 
(  Horrid !'  ejaculated  her  ladyship, — '  and  tripe 

or  cow-heel  for  dinner,  and  we'll  get  up  at  day- 

• 

light,  and  work  hard  all  day,  and  may  be  have 
to  sit  up  all  night  now  and  then,  to  earn 
enough  to  keep  us,  and  after  we  have  lived  so 
for  a  month,  we'll  come  home ;  and  your  lady 
ship  will  relish  your  chocolate  and  muffin,  and 
your  carriage  will  be  easy,  and  your  bed  com 
fortable,  and  your  very  night-gown  will  seem 
an  elegant  dress.' 

"'Is  the  girl  rnad?'  exclaimed  Lady  Mary, 
actually  raising  herself  on  her  elbow  to  look 
at  Kitty.  <  Did  any  body  ever  live  in  such  a 
dreadful  way  ?' 

" '  Oh  !  yes,  my  lady ;  hundreds  and  thou 
sands  live  so,  and  hundreds  and  thousands 
more  would  be  glad  to  live  so.  If  you  had 
seen  the  sight  that  I  saw  yesterday  !  A  poor 
family  in  such  distress — starving,  my  lady.' 

"  Lady  Mary  had  not  a  bad  disposition,  nor 

did  she  want  sense,  though   indulgence  kept 
8 


86  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

her  better  nature  torpid.  '  Starving!'  she  said 
with  a  look  of  horror — <  why  did  not  you  tell 
me,  Kitty  ?" 

"'Your  ladyship  complained  so  much  of 
your  nerves,  that  I  was  afraid  to  disturb  you.' 

" '  But  when  people  are  starving,  Kitty.' 
Tears  came  into  her  ladyship's  eyes,  and  her 
purse  was  already  in  her  hand.  Encouraged 
by  these  symptoms,  Kitty  persevered.  '  If 
your  ladyship  could  only  see  them.  It  is  not 
far.  Your  ladyship  never  saw  any  thing  like 
it.'  Curiosity  and  pity  were  excited.  It  was 
delightful  to  feel  an  interest  in  something ; 
quite  a  new  sensation.  Lady  Mary  looked  out 
of  the  window,  was  positive  she  should  take 
her  death,  the  wind,  was  high,  the  day  was 
cold,  &c.  &c.  But  at  length  the  carriage  was 
ordered,  Lady  Mary  was  well  wrapped  up, 
and  attended  by  Kitty,  she  entered,  for  the  first 
time,  the  dwelling  of  poverty. 

"  I  cannot  remember  the  particulars  of  their 
visit.  Lady  Mary  witnessed  a  terrible  scene 
of  domestic  distress;  she  gave  relief  freely, 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  87 

and  aided  by  Kitty's  experience,  gave  it 
wisely.  They  departed  laden  with  thanks  and 
blessings. 

"  When  they  got  home,  Lady  Mary  thought 
her  boudoir  more  elegant,  and  her  sofa  more 
comfortable,  than  they  had  ever  been  before. 
She  ate  her  dinner  with  appetite,  she  looked 
on  with  interest  while  Kitty  cut  out  the 
clothing  they  had  bought  for  the  poor  family ; 
and  at  last  actually  undertook  to  make  a  little 
cap.  How  she  succeeded,  the  story  does  not 
relate ;  but  many  such  visits  were  afterwards 
paid,  to  the  great  benefit  of  Lady  Mary's 
health,  and  Kitty  got  a  handsome  new  gown, 
as  a  fee  for  her  successful  prescription. 

Having  finished  her  story,  Mrs.  Lorimer  got 
up,  and  leaning  on  her  servant,  went  out  of 
the  room. 

"  I  can  bear  to  hear  aunt  Lorimer  preach," 
said  Joanna,  extending  herself  on  the  sofa  her 
aunt  had  just  quitted,  "for  she  always  prac 
tises  what  she  preaches." 

"  I   wish    you    would    practice    what    she 


88  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

preaches,"  said  Miss  Barton  good-humouredly, 
"  for  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  finish  this  wrapper 
by  dinner  time." 

"  So  I  will !"  exclaimed  Joanna,  jumping  up. 

"  I  know  why  you  are  in  such  a  hurry ;  that 
wrapper  is  for  old  Mrs.  Clark.  I  will  help 
you ;  and  cousin  Susan,"  (the  blush  of  inge 
nuous  shame  rose  to  her  temples,)  "  I  was  rude 
and  false  when  I  said  you  was  unfeeling. 
Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

The  cousins  exchanged  an  affectionate  kiss. 
Joanna  went  to  work  in  good  earnest.  Susan 
exerted  herself  to  entertain  her  volatile  assist 
ant,  and  the  morning  passed  so  rapidly,  that 
Joanna  started  with  surprise  when  the  bell 
rang  for  dinner. 


Mrs.  Lorimer  owned  some  western  lands, 
which  she  wished  to  dispose  of.  A  note  came 
from  her  lawyer  requesting  her  to  send  him  a 
certain  deed.  Miss  Barton  searched  every 
corner  of  her  grandmother's  writing  desk,  but 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  89 

the  required  document  was  not  to  be  found. 
Mrs.  Lorimer  gave  Joanna  a  key  directing  her 
to  unlock  a  closet  in  her  chamber,  and  bring 
her  a  rose-wood  box,  which  stood  on  the  low 
est  shelf. 

The  rose-wood  box  was  brought,  and  in  it 
the  deed  was  found.  When  it  was  sent  to  the 
lawyer,  Joanna  offered  to  assist  Mrs.  Lorimer 
in  replacing  the  contents  of  the  box.  One 
compartment  was  filled  with  papers  ;  another 
with  antique  and  valuable  trinkets — long  silver 
pins,  with  jewelled  heads ;  diamond  ear-rings, 
shoe-buckles,  and  other  relics  of  departed  fash 
ions.  In  replacing  a  curiously  engraved  topaz 
seal,  Joanna  threw  down  a  folded  paper.  It 
opened  as  it  fell,  disclosing  a  lock  of  hair. 
"  What  splendid  hair!"  exclaimed  Joanna,  as 
she  lifted  it  from  the  carpet,  and  the  black  and 
glossy  tress  unfolded  to  more  than  three  feet 
in  length.  Mrs.  Lorimer  sighed  as  she  contem 
plated  it.  She  opened  another  paper,  and 
showed  Joanna  a  bright  auburn  curl.  "  These 

locks  of  hair  belonged  to  two  friends  of  my 

8* 


90  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

youth.  How  many  recollections  does  the  sight 
of  them  awaken !"  She  touched  a  spring  in 
the  si'de  of  the  box  ;  a  shallow  drawer  was 
thrown  out,  in  which  lay  two  small  morocco 
cases.  Mrs.  Lorimer  opened  one  of  them,  and 
gave  it  to  Joanna. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  What  eyes  and  lips  ! 
They  almost  speak :  such  ringlets,  too.  Aunt, 
was  not  she  a  genius,  as  well  as  a  beauty  ? 
What  a  bright,  sweet,  glad  face!  One  'to 
make  sunshine  in  a  shady  place.'  She  looks 
all  beauty,  hope,  and  happiness.  Who  was 
she,  aunt  ?" 

"  Her  name  was  Albina  Leigh.  When  that 
likeness  was  taken,  (and  it  is  not  a  flattered 
one)  she  was,  as  you  say,  all  beauty,  hope  and 
happiness.  Her  family  was  rich  and  respect 
able  ;  her  parents  doted  on  her ;  no  pains  were 
spared  on  her  education,  no  expense  was 
spared  to  give  her  pleasure ;  she  was  fed  with 
praise  and  luxury  from  her  birth." 

"  No  wonder  she  looks  happy,"  said  Joanna. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  shook  her  head  and  continued  j 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  91 

"  She  had  warm  affections,  a  generous  temper, 
and  a  lofty  scorn  of  all  mean  faults.  Too 
proud  to  be  haughty,  her  manners  were  pecu 
liarly  fascinating  ;  even  her  vanities  were  grace 
ful  :  but,  for  want  of  proper  training,  her  very 
virtues  were  no  better  than  lovely  weeds. 
Her  courage  was  boldness,  her  frankness  im 
prudence,  and  her  generosity  profusion.  She 
had  lived  on  excitement  till  excitement  was 
her  daily  bread;  and  her  sensibilities,  natu 
rally  too  acute  for  peace,  became  thoroughly 
diseased. .  She  married  early  and  imprudently, 
with  her  heart  full  of  Arcadian  visions  of 
wedded  bliss.  A  good  husband  could  not 
have  satisfied  her  romantic  expectations:  Al- 
bina  married  a  villain.  In  her  father's  house 
she  had  never  known  sorrow ;  too  proud  to 
complain,  too  impatient  to  endure,  ignorant  of 
the  only  True  Comforter,  she  rushed  into 
society.  '  I  can  never  know  happiness,'  she 
said,  when  a  friend  remonstrated  with  her; 
<  I  will  satisfy  myself  with  pleasure.'  Thus, 
at  sixteen,  talented,  beautiful,  ardent,  and  most 


92  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

wretched, — Albina  was  placed  in  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  positions  for  a  woman,  a  ne 
glected  wife  in  fashionable  society.  Her  very 
innocence  was  a  snare  to  her;  for,  as  she 
meant  no  evil,  she  was  not  careful  to  avoid 
the  appearance  of  it.  Of  course  she  was  mis 
judged.  Admired  and  hated,  caressed  and 
slandered,  she  sacrified  health,  peace,  and  re 
putation  in  her  mad  career.  She  saw  her 
error  too  late  ;  an  early  grave  received  her 
who  might  have  been " 

The  old  lady's  voice  faltered.  She  took  off 
her  spectacles  and  busied  herself  in  wiping 
them, 

"  I  cut  that  curl  from  her  head  just  before 
she  was  put  into  the  coffin  ;  and  I  tell  you  her 
story,  Joanna,  as  a  warning  ;  for  her  character 
in  its  good  and  evil,  was  too  like  your  own." 

Joanna  remained  silent,  gazing  at  the  beau 
tiful  face  which  seemed  to  smile  at  her,  and 
many  new  thoughts  passed  confusedly  over  her 
mind. 

"  Here,"   resumed  Mrs.  Lorimer,  taking   a 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  93 

paper  out  of  the  drawer,  "  are  some  lines  she 
wrote  on  the  birth -day  of  her  son."  Joanna 
took  the  paper  with  a  feeling  as  if  if,  came  from 
the  dead. 

TO   MY    SON. 

ON   HIS  BIRT  H-D  A  Y. 

In  cloudless  beauty  rose  the  morn, 
When  thou,  my  lovely  babe,  wast  born, 
Serene  along  its  heavenly  way, 
Roll'd  the  effulgent  orb  of  day ; 
And  then  I  pray'd,  that  like  those  skies, 
Clear  might  thy  morn  of  life  arise  ; 
Of  guilt  no  cloud,  of  grief  no  shower, 
To  blight  nor  crush  my  tender  flower, 
And  will  that  prayer  in  heaven  be  heard  ? 
Or  are  its  golden  portals  barr'd 
For  aye  against  the  suppliant  cry, 
Of  one  so  sad,  so  lone  as  I  ? 

As  yet  my  babe,  thou  canst  n6t  know 
What  waits  thee  in  this  world  of  wo ; 
The  sorrows  of  thy  infant  hour, 
Sooth'd  by  a  toy,  a  fruit,  a  flower. 
As  yet,  sweet  boy,  thy  cheek's  young  rose 
With  health's  untainted  crimson  glows ; 
As  yet,  the  laughter  of  thine  eyes. 
To  dimpling  cheek  and  lip  replies; 
Thou  hast  not  learned  the  needful  art 
To  amile,  while  anguish  rings  the  heart ; 
To  lock  within  the  struggling  sigh, 
Give  torturing  question,  calm  reply ; 


94  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

And  as  the  warriors  shining  vest 
Full  often  hides  the  mangled  breast, 
In  quaint  array  of  mirth,  conceal 
The  wounds  of  soul  that  will  not  heal. 

Dear  boy,  thy  mother's  morn  of  life, 
Was  free  as  thine  from  storm  and  strife. 
Hopes  of  my  youth !  your  meteor  blaze 
One  instant  flashing  on  my  gaze, 
The  next,  for  ever  quenched  in  night ; 
Ye  gave  my  path  a  transient  light, 
That  fading,  left  despair  more  chill, 
And  sorrow's  midnight  darker  still. 

The  victim  of  emotions  wild. 

Tumultuous  passion's  wayward  child; 

Ah  ?  what  avails  the  brilliant  name, 

The  wreath  of  praise  the  crown  of  fame ! 

They  cannot  sooth  reflection's  smart, 

They  cannot  bind  the  broken  heart  ; 

They  bloom,  like  flowers  that  grave-stones  deck, 

Or  shine  like  sunbeams  o'er  a  wreck. 

Yet,  could  I  think  that  all  the  wo. 
I've  known,  and  must  for  ever  know, 
Would  spare  thy  heart  one  painful  thrill. 
Would  turn  from  tkee  one  shaft  of  ill. 
For  thy  dear  sake  I'd  gladly  bear 
Even  to  the  tomb,  my  load  of  care ; 
My  heart  for  misery's  target  yield, 
So  might  I  thy  dear  bosom  shield  ; 
And  welcome  every  pang  to  me, 
If  recompensed  by  joy  to  thee. 

The  other  portrait  represented  a  lady  about 
twenty-five.     It  was  a  calm,  sensible,  thought- 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  95 

ful  face,  with  no  pretensions  to  beauty,  except 
in  the  dark  eyes  and  luxuriant  folds  of  jet 
black  hair. 

« Caroline  Mel  win,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer, 
"  was  a  few  years  older  than  myself.  She 
was  not  remarkable  for  talent,  and,  as  you  see, 
was  not  handsome;  but  she  had  plain  good 
sense,  great  constancy  of  affection,  and  a  very 
strong  sense  of  duty.  When  1  first  knew  her, 
she  was  as  happy  as  it  seemed  possible  to  be. 
She  had  an  affectionate  husband,  whom  she 
loved,  and  two  darling  children.  Theirs  was 
a  pleasant  home,  indeed.  They  removed  from 
Philadelphia  soon  after  their  third  child  was 
born;  circumstances  interrupted  our  corre 
spondence,  and  for  ten  years  I  heard  nothing  of 
them  beyond  accidental  reports.  One  winter 
evening  I  was  writing  in  my  husband's  study, 
when  I  heard  the  stage-coach  stop  at  our  door, 
(we  lived  in  the  country  then,)  and  presently  I 
was  told  that  a  lady  wished  to  see  me.  I  went 
into  the  parlour;  a  lady  in  deep  mourning 
threw  up  her  crape  veil  and  advanced  to  meet 


96  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

0 

me.  It  was  only  by  her  voice  that  I  recognised 
Mrs.  Melwin.  I  welcomed  her  warmly,  but 
was  afraid  to  ask  for  whom  she  wore  mourn 
ing.  She  saw  me  look  at  her  dress.  'For 
my  husband/  said  she,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Knowing  how  they  had  loved  each  other, 
I  felt  as  if  she  had  told  me  the  worst  when  I 
knew  that  she  was  dead ;  but  I  was  mistaken. 

"  She  staid  with  me  a  week,  and  at  intervals 
related  all  that  had  taken  place  since  I  had 
seen  her  last.  Her  husband  engaged  in  a 
business  he  did  not  understand,  was  cheated 
and  ruined.  He  was  an  excellent  musician, 
and  his  wife  sang  and  played  extremely  well ; 
he  procured  an  engagement  at  the  theatre,  and 
this  was  the  beginning  of  sorrows. 

"  Mr.  Melwin's  virtues  had  been  those  of 
situation  not  principle.  The  society  into 
which  he  was  now  thrown  proved  most  per 
nicious  to  him.  He  was  invited  to  parties, 
where  he  enjoyed  luxuries  they  could  not 
afford  at  home.  Night  after  night  poor  Mrs. 
Melwin  sat  alone,  waiting  for  her  husband, 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  97 

and  regretting  the  time  when  he  used  to  read 
to  her  while  she  worked.  At  last  he  came 
home  intoxicated. 

"  He  neglected  his  business  at  the  theatre, 
and  was  discharged.  He  rambled  from  city 
to  city,  dragging  his  wife  and  children  with 
him,  forming  engagements,  breaking  them,  get 
ting  discharged  in  disgrace,  and  growing  more 
and  more  intemperate.  His  excellent  wife  did 
her  best  for  him  and  her  children,  but  he  ceased 
to  love  her  when  he  ceased  to  respect  him 
self;  unkindness  was  soon  added  to  indiffer 
ence.  Still  she  toiled  patiently  on,  trying  to 
assist  him  by  giving  lessons  in  music ;  but  he 
never  staid  long  enough  in  one  place  to  make 
her  exertions  profitable.  At  length,  just  after 
their  arrival  in  a  strange  city,  a  stroke  of  palsy, 
brought  on  by  hard  drinking,  cast  him  a  help 
less  burden  on  the  pity  of  her  he  had  so  cruelly 
wronged. 

"  Hitherto  her  trials  and  her  efforts  had  been 
private ;  now  she  was  in  a  strange  place  with 
out  money,  without  friends,  her  helpless  hus- 


98  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

band  and  four  children  depending  on  her  for 
support.  The  manager  of  the  theatre  pitied 
her ;  he  was  not  rich,  but  he  did  what  he 
could;  he  knew  she  sang  well,  and  he  advised 
her  to  give  a  concert,  and  offered  to  assist  her 
in  preparing  for  it.  Caroline  was  a  woman 
of  very  quiet,  grave  manners,  and  so  averse 
to  display  that  her  musical  powers  had  seldom 
been  exerted  in  her  days  of  affluence,  except 
for  the  amusement  of  her  family.  To  appear 
in  public  was  like  being  stretched  on  the  rack. 
But  her  children  were  starving,  her  husband 
must  have  a  physician,  and  she  consented. 
What  she  suffered  I  will  not  attempt  to  de 
scribe.  Her  singing  was  admired,  her  situa 
tion  made  known ;  sympathy  was  awakened, 
and  it  was  suggested  that  a  second  concert 
would  be  even  more  profitable  than  the  first. 
As  her  children  were  remarkably  handsome, 
and  inherited  the  musical  talents  of  their  pa 
rents,  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  appear 
with  her. 
"'  Imagine,'  she  said  to  me,  'what  I  must 


AGE    AND    YOUTH.  99 

have  endured.  Compelled  to  practise  songs 
with  my  children  in  one  room,  while  the 
dying  groans  of  their  father  resounded  in  the 
next. 

"  However,  the  concerts  succeeded.  She 
became  known  and  respected,  obtained  plenty 
of  pupils,  and  for  three  years  this  admirable 
woman  maintained  herself,  her  sick  husband, 
and  her  children.  At  the  end  of  that  time  Mr. 
Melwin  died,  and  his  last  words  were  a  bless 
ing  on  his  wife.  Shortly  afterwards,  Caroline's 
brother,  who  had  been  many  years  in  India, 
returned  to  Philadelphia,  and  sent  for  her 
and  her  children.  It  was  then  that  she  visited 
me. 

"  I  grieved  to  see  that  sorrow  and  toil  had 
undermined  her  health,  but  she  seemed  so 
much  better  during  the  quiet  week  we  spent 
together,  that  I  hoped  she  might  be  perfectly 
restored.  We  parted  reluctantly,  and  she  pro 
mised  to  visit  me  in  the  course  of  the  next 
summer,  That  summer  she  never  saw.  She 
ruptured  a  blood-vessel  soon  after  she  left 


100  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

Forestville,  and  died  before  the  leaves  were 
green." 

"  Oh !  aunt,  what  an  angel,"  sobbed  Jo- 
anna,  whose  tears  had  been  silently  flowing  for 
some  time;  "and  her  children,  what  became 
of  them  ?" 

"They  went  with  their  uncle  to  Alabama. 
They  were  worthy  children  of  such  a  mother ; 
they  profited  by  the  bitter  lessons  of  their  in 
fancy,  and  grew  up  excellent  men  and  women." 

Joanna  remained  quiet  a  little  while,  and 
then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  said,  "  How  my  heart 
does  ache  !  Aunt,  your  stories  have  made  me 
very  sad." 

"  You  look  pale,  really,  Joanna,"  said  Miss 
Barton,  kindly. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  laid  her  hand  on  Joanna's 
clustering  curls.  "'By  the  sadness  of  the 
countenance,  the  heart  is  made  better.'  God 
grant,  my  child,  that  it  may  be  so  with  thee." 


NOTE. — The  character  of  Caroline  Melwin  is  no  sketch  of 
fancy.  The  author  knew  and  loved  the  excellent  woman  whose 
virtues  she  has  here  attempted  to  portray. 


THE  YOUNG  CHRISTIAN. 


A  flower  that's  offered  in  the  bud, 
Is  no  vain  sacrifice. — WATTS. 


DR.  HENDERSON,  a  wealthy  physician  re 
tired  from  practice,  was  one  of  Mrs.  Lorimer's 
most  intimate  friends  ;  and  as  he  was  remark 
ably  cheerful  and  intelligent,  his.  visits  were 
always  joyfully  welcomed;  particularly  by 
Joanna,  who  was  the  Doctor's  pet.  He  de 
lighted  in  a  skirmish  of  words  with  the  quick 
witted  girl,  and  gave  her  much  valuable  in 
struction. 

"I  met  with  a  little  adventure  on  your 
staircase  just  now,"  said  he,  one  morning,  to 
Miss  Barton. 

"  Pray  tell  us.  An  adventure  of  any  kind 
is  worth  hearing,  in  these  commonplace  days." 

"  I  was  coming  up  rather  slowly,  you  know," 
9*  101 


102  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

pointing  with  his  cane  to  his  rheumatic  foot, 
"  when,  on  the  flight  above,  I  saw  a  young 
gentleman  coming  down.  He  was  moving  even 
more  slowly  than  I  did,  and  reading  so  atten 
tively  that  nothing  less  audible  than  a  pistol- 
shot  seemed  likely  to  disturb  him.  I  drew 
aside  to  watch  his  progress;  but  when  he 
reached  the  landing-place  where  I  stood,  he 
missed  a  step,  stumbled,  and  almost  fell  against 
me.  He  looked  up,  started  back,  took  off  his 
hat,  and,  while  I  was  admiring  one  of  the 
handsomest  heads  I  ever  saw,  apologized  for 
his  awkwardness  with  such  gentlemanly  grace, 
and  in  such  sweet  tones " 

"As  ardent  as  ever,  my  old  friend,"  said 
Mrs.  Lorimer,  laughing. 

The  Doctor  nodded  and  went  on — "that  I 
had  a  mind  to  hug  the  dear  lad ;  for  my  heart 
warms  to  a  boy  who  loves  his  book." 

"  Oh  !  then,  your  pnoenix  is  a  school-boy." 

"  About  fifteen,  I  should  suppose,  but  a  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  in  courtesy.  So,  when  his  apo 
logy  was  made  and  received,  he  went  on  his 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  103 

way,  as  John  Bunyan  says,  and  I  saw  him  no 
more." 

"  Can  you  imagine  who  it  is,  Susan?" 

(t  Not  unless  it  be  one  of  the  new  boarders. 
Mrs.  Brown  told  me  she  expected  a  lady  with 
two  children." 

A  quick  tapping  was  now  heard  at  the  door, 
and  before  Joanna  could  open  it,  the  knob  was 
turned  from  without,  and  Mrs.  Brown  came 
in,  much  flurried. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies ;  but  have  either 
of  you  any  hartshorne  or  smelling-salts  ?" 

Miss  Barton  took  her  salts  out  of  her  work- 
basket.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Brown  ?" 

"Thank  you,  miss.  Mrs.  Field  has  just 
fainted  away ; — "  and  was  hurrying  off. 

"I  will  go  with  you,  Mrs.  Brown,"  said 
Miss  Barton;  but  Mrs.  Brown  had  disap 
peared. 

"  Send  for  me,  my  dear,  if  I  can  be  useful," 
said  Dr.  Henderson,  calling  after  Miss  Barton, 
as  she  ran  after  Mrs.  Brown. 

Miss  Barton  Soon  returned,  and  said  that 


104  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

Mrs.  Field's  fainting  had  been  caused  by  fa 
tigue,  she  being  just  recovered  from  a  fit  of 
illness.  "  This  must  be  the  lady  Mrs.  Brown 
told  me  of,  last  week,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer. 
"  She  is  a  widow." 

"  Herself  and  daughter  are  in  deep  mourn 
ing,"  said  Miss  Barton. 

«  Her  husband  died  not  long  ago.  They  are 
in  reduced  circumstances,  I  think.  The  son  is 
in  a  lawyer's  office,  and  the  mother  and 
daughter  wish  to  open  a  school." 

"  They  are  ladies,  decidedly,"  replied  Miss 
Barton.  "Notwithstanding  the  indisposition 
of  the  mother,  and  the  alarm  of  the  daughter, 
they  struck  me  as  women  of  superior  man 
ners." 

"Then  the  son  is  undoubtedly  my  hero 
of  the  staircase"  exclaimed  Dr.  Henderson. 
"  Come,  Miss  Somers ;  cannot  your  active  im 
agination  furnish  forth  a  poem  or  a  novel  on 
this  interesting  group  ?  You  might  call  it  the 
'  Mysterious  Family.' ' 

Joanna  reddened,  for  she  did  not  like  to  be 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  105 

rallied  on  her  fondness  for  the  romantic.  A 
saucy  repartee  hovered  on  her  lip,  but  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  eye  was  upon  her;  she  held  her 
peace,  and  the  conversation  turned  to  other 
subjects. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Mrs.  Lorimer's 
maid  Phoebe  came  in,  to  say  that  a  young  gen 
tleman  begged  to  know  if  she  was  at  leisure, 
and  would  see  him  for  a  moment.  Mrs.  Lori- 
mer  sent  an  affirmative  message,  and  the 
stranger  was  introduced.  The  ladies  could  not 
but  identify  the  blooming,  graceful  boy,  who 
entered,  with  Dr.  Henderson's  "hero  of  the 
staircase."  He  came  to  return  Miss  Barton's 
salts ;  and  their  prepossession  in  his  favour 
was  farther  heightened  by  the  modest  pro 
priety  with  which  he  thanked  her  for  her  kind 
attentions  to  his  mother.  Mrs.  Lorimer  re 
quested  him  to  sit  down;  he  accepted  her 
civility  with  the  manner  of  one  who  is  accus 
tomed  to  associate  with  well-bred  people,  and 
after  a  short  stay,  took  his  leave,  bearing  with 
him  the  "  golden  opinions"  of  the  ladies,  and 


106  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

a  polite  message  from  Mrs.  Lorimer  to  Mrs. 
Field. 


Summer  was  ripening  into  autumn,  and  still 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Somers  were  absent.  Joanna 
remained  under  her  grand-aunt's  care,  and  the 
Lorimer  party  had  become  quite  intimate  with 
the  Fields.  Mrs.  Lorimer,  having  taken  care 
to  ascertain  that  the  character,  principles,  and 
habits  of  the  family,  were  such  as  to  make 
them  proper  companions  for  her  grand-daughter 
and  niece,  felt  that  their  narrow  circumstances, 
and  as  the  manner  in  which  they  bore  a  bitter 
reverse  of  fortune,  gave  them  a  double  claim 
on  her  affection,  and  commanded  her  respect. 
Many  plans  did  she  revolve  for  their  benefit; 
but  her  income,  though  affording  a  respectable 
independence  to  herself  and  orphan  grand-child, 
was  not  large  enough  to  enable  her  to  offer  any 
essential  aid  to  her  new  friends.  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Field  were  sensible,  amiable,  elegant,  and 
highly  accomplished  women  ;  but  sense,  amia- 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  107 

bility,  elegance,  and  accomplishments,  are  not 
the  only  capital  needed  in  establishing  a  board 
ing-school.  Dr.  Henderson  was  out  of  town; 
other  friends  had  their  interest  already  engaged. 
She  finally  determined  to  await  the  return  of 
Mr.  Somers,  and  state  the  case  to  him. 

Mrs.  Field  and  her  daughter  frequently 
spent  their  evenings  with  Mrs.  Lorimer. 
Edmund  was  seldom  at  leisure,  but  was 
always  so  cordially  welcomed  by  the  kind  old 
lady,  that  it  became  his  custom  to  call  every 
evening,  and  inquire  if  he  could  perform  any 
little  commission  for  her.  When  he  had  an 
hour  to  spare,  it  was  his  luxury  to  spend  it  in 
Mrs.  Lorimer's  parlour. 

Joanna  scarcely  knew  whether  she  liked  or 
disliked  Edmund  Field.  He  exercised,  un 
consciously,  a  power  over  her  mind,  which  she 
felt,  resented,  resisted,  and  submitted  to,  with 
out  in  the  least  understanding  it.  It  was  the 
power  of  a  principled  mind  over  an  impulsive 
one;  of  a  mild  over  a  violent  temper,  and  she 


108  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

benefited,  in  spite  of  herself,  by  the  unseen  in 
fluence. 

Joanna's  position  in  life,  brilliant  as  it  ap 
peared  had  some  dark  shadows,  Her  mother 
was  an  amiable  gentle  wjoman,  but  of  limited 
understanding  and  timid  temper-;  one  of  those 
who  are  born  to  be  ruled.  She  was  quite  un 
able  to  comprehend,  far  less  to  control  the  fiery 
temperament  of  her  daughter.  Provided  her 
dress  was  neat  and  her  movements  graceful,  if 
she  sinned  not  against  the  etiquette  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  her  teachers  reported  well 
of  her  improvement,  Mrs.  Somers  was  satis 
fied.  Mr.  Somers  was  a  well-informed,  strong- 
minded  man,  but  he  devoted  his  energies  to 
business,  and  left  the  formation  of  his  daughter's 
mind  to  her  mother  and  governess.  He  was 
proud  of  her  beauty  and  talents,  and  lavish  in 
his  indulgence  of  her  caprices.  He  had  mar 
ried  early,  and  chose  his  wife  for  her  beauty 
and  gentleness :  he  found  her,  as  he  sometimes 
thought,  like  lemonade  without  the  acid.  He 
was  determined  that  «  his  daughter  should  not 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  109 

be  insipid"  and  encouraged  her  quickness  of 
repartee,  till  her  wit  became  pertness.  Mrs. 
Somers  was  timid  every  where,  and  about 
every  thing.  In  a  boat,  in  a  carriage,  at  home, 
abroad,  her  timidity  was  in  the  way  of  every 
body's  pleasure.  Mr.  Somers  determined  "  that 
his  daughter  should  have  no  feminine  weak 
nesses."  He  taught  her  to  load  and  fire  a 
pistol,  as  soon  as  her  little  hands  could  hold 
one  ;  to  manage  a  horse,  as  soon  as  she  could 
sit  on  one.  Joanna's  bold  and  ardent  charac 
ter  well  seconded  her  father's  wishes.  She 
gloried  in  doing  what  others  of  her  sex  feared 
and  blamed ;  and  nothing  saved  her  from  be 
coming  thoroughly  masculine  and  disagreeable, 
but  the  tenderness  of  her  affections.  She  loved 
her  gentle  mother ;  she  loved  her  aunt  Lorimer, 
and  her  cousin  Susan ;  and  she  tried  to  tame 
down  her  loud  tones  and  boisterous  movements 
in  their  presence. 

In  the   many  conversations   she   held  with 
Edmund  Field,  she  sometimes  grieved  him,  and 

frequently  grew  angry  herself;    but  Edmund 
10 


110  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

never  lost  either  his  politeness  or  his  temper, 
and  she  retired  from  their  contests,  self-re 
proving,  abashed,  and  perplexed.  She  was  not 
very  popular  among  the  fashionable  juveniles 
with  whom  she  associated.  The  boys  admired 
her  beauty,  but  felt  rather  jealous  of  her  talents ; 
the  girls  envied  both,  and  were  affronted  at  her 
contempt  (not  always  very  civilly  expressed) 
for  their  frivolous  amusements,  their  ignorance 
of  poetry,  and  their  love  of  dress. 

Edmund  was  evidently  not  dazzled  by  her 
genius — and  she  could  not  even  guess  whether 
he  thought  her  handsome  or  not.  He  always 
treated  her  with  a  manliness  of  respect  beyond 
his  years;  listened  with  evident  pleasure  when 
she  talked  rationally  of  books,  or  repeated  fine 
passages  from  her  favourite  authors :  but  when 
she  boasted  of  some  unfeminine  daring,  or  de 
fended  some  questionable  theory,  he  gently  and 
steadily  combated  her  opinions.  When  she 
grew  angry,  he  heard  her  in  grave  silence, 
and  embraced  the  first  opportunity  of  taking 
his  leave. 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  Ill 

One  evening,  when  Mrs.  Field  and  her 
daughter  were  out,  Edmund  came  to  make  his 
usual  inquiry.  Mrs.  Lorimer,  feeling  very  un 
well,  had  gone  to  bed ;  Miss  Barton  and  Jo 
anna  were  attending  her.  Edmund  sent  in 
his  message  by  Phoebe,  who  brought  back  Miss 
Barton's  compliments,  and  would  thank  him  to 
wait  a  little.  He  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  The 
parlour  was  cool  and  quiet,  lighted  only  by  a 
shaded  lamp.  There  was  just  breeze  enough 
to  stir  the  curtains,  arid  send  the  odour  of  Miss 
Barton's  flowers  sweetly  through  the  room. 
Edmund  was  very  weary;  he  leaned  back 
among  the  soft  cushions;  gradually  the  sur 
rounding  quiet  stole  over  his  senses,  and  he 
fell  fast  asleep. 

His  was  the  sound,  sweet  sleep  of  youth ; 
and  when  Miss  Barton  and  Joanna  came  in, 
even  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  door  did 
not  disturb  him.  He  was  half  sitting,  half  re 
clining,  his  cheek  pillowed  on  his  clasped  hands, 
which  were  supported  by  a  pile  of  cushions, 


112  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

and  his  fine  features  wearing  an  expression  of 
innocent  and  smiling  composure 

Joanna  half  exclaimed,  but  Miss  Barton's 
up-lifted  finger  motioned  her  to  silence. 

"  He  is  tired,  no  doubt.  Don't  let  us  disturb 
him,  Joanna." 

She  stepped  softly  to  the  chimney-piece  to 
remove  the  lamp,  but  people  always  seem 
doomed  to  make  a  noise  when  they  are  most 
anxious  to  avoid  it.  Her  foot  struck  the  tongs, 
they  fell  clattering  on  the  marble  hearth  ;  Ed 
mund  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  Joanna  burst  into 
a  loud  laugh. 

When  poor  Edmund  was  sufficiently  awake 
to  comprehend  where  he  was,  and  what  had 
happened,  he  was  much  confused,  and  blushed 
violently.  Miss  Barton  kindly  and  politely 
said — 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Edmund,  for  having 
kept  you  waiting  so  long.  We  were  unwilling 
to  leave  my  grandmother  until  she  seemed  in 
clined  to  sleep." 

"You  are  very  good,  Miss  Barton,"  replied 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  113 

Edmund,  glancing  reproachfully  at  the  still 
laughing  Joanna ;  "  but  I  know  that  an  apology 
is  due  to  you.  The  fact  is,  I  was  up  at  four 
this  morning,  and  have  been  walking  nearly 
all  day.  It  was  so  quiet  and  comfortable  here, 
that  I  fell  asleep  unawares.  1  hope  you  will 
excuse  me." 

Miss  Barton  was  about  to  reply,  when  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  bell  rang  hurriedly,  and  she  darted 
away  in  alarm,  leaving  Joanna  and  Edmund 
standing  together.  Edmund  looked  at  the 
young  lady ;  he  saw  her  glance  mischievously 
at  him,  while  suppressed  mirth  dimpled  round 
her  lips ;  and  when  she  met  his  eyes,  she 
laughed  again.  Edmund  was  at  the  age  to 
dread  being  the  subject  of  female  ridicule.  He 
felt  Joanna's  rudeness  painfully;  he  bit  his 
lips,  bowed,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but 
she  saw  that  tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  She  was 
serious  in  a  moment. 

"  Oh  !  Edmund,"  she  exclaimed,  springing 
after  him,  "  please  to  excuse  me.  Do  come 

back  just  a  minute.     1  am  very  sorry.     I  did 
10* 


114  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

not  mean  to  vex  you,  but,  indeed,  I  could  not 
help  laughing.  Don't  be  angry  with  me." 

"  I  am  not  angry.  Miss  Somers,"  replied 
Edmund,  sadly. 

"  Then  don't  look  so  sad,  or  I  shall  cry  too. 
I  know  I  am  thoughtless,  but  I  did  not  mean 
to  be  unkind.  Won't  you  forgive  me,  Ed 
mund  ?  I  am  very  sorry." 

"  It  is  all  over  now,"  said  Edmund,  smiling 
gravely,  and  shaking  her  offered  hand. 

"  Then  don't  go  away  yet.  Sit  down  and 
talk  with  me  awhile.  Your  mamma  and  sister 
are  out,  and  you  will  be  lonely.  But  perhaps 
you  are  tired,  and  would  rather  go  to  bed  ?" 

"  I  am  tired,"  replied  Edmund,  sitting  down  ; 
"but  I  shall  not  go  to  bed  till  twelve  o'clock." 

"  And  up  again  at  four !  Why,  Edmund, 
no  wonder  you  are  sleepy.  What  in  the  world 
makes  you  get  up  so  early  ?  Mamma  says  it 
is  very  hurtful  to  young  people  not  to  have 
enough  sleep." 

«I  should  like  to  sleep  longer,  but  I  cannot 
spare  time." 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  115 

"Why,  what  on  earth  can  you  do  up,  at 
four  in  the  morning  ?" 

"  I  study  French." 

"  Well,  I  love  learning  dearly,  but  not 
enough  to  get  up  before  sun-rise  to  study." 

"  I  love  learning,  and  I  love  my  dear  mother 
too.  She  knows  the  value  of  a  good  education. 
I  have  nothing  to  depend  on  but  my  own  ex 
ertions.  She  gives  me  lessons,  and  I  should 
be  very  ungrateful  if  I  did  not  try  to  profit  by 
them." 

"  Oh  !  Edmund,"  said  Joanna,  touched,  "  I 
wish  I  were  as  good  as  you.' 

"  Good,  Miss  Somers  !  <  there  is  none  good 
but  one— that  is  God.7  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  that  way  ;  but  you  are  good,  I 
am  sure.  You  are  always  industrious,  and 
obliging,  and  polite,  and  dutiful  to  your  mother, 
and  affectionate  to  your  sister ;  you  are  never 
thoughtless,  and  foolish,  and  passionate  as  I 
am.  I  am  sure,  I  think  you  are  very  good." 

"  Oh !  Miss  Somers,  don't  talk  so,  if  you 
please.  It  makes  me  ashamed.  If  you  could 


116  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

see  into  my  heart,  you  would  know  how  very, 
very  bad  it  is.  '  The  heart  is  deceitful  above 
all  things,  and  desperately  wicked.' ' 

«  Why,  Edmund,  you  won't  pretend  to  say 
that  your  heart  is  as  wicked  as  the  boy's  you 
told  us  of  yesterday,  that  stabbed  his  school 
fellow  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  do  say  so,  Miss  Somers.  My 
heart  is  naturally  quite  as  bad  as  his,  and  if  I 
am  kept  from  doing  as  he  did,  who  made  me 
to  differ  ?  I  have  not  power  of  myself  to  think 
one  good  thought.  The  Bible  tells  us, '  If  we 
say  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  ourselves,  and 
the  truth  is  not  in  us.' ' 

"  I  don't  understand  you  Edmund,"  said 
Joanna,  looking  bewildered. 

A  long  and  earnest  conversation  ensued  be 
tween  the  young  people,  in  which  Edmund 
explained  to  Joanna,  as  clearly  as  he  was  able, 
the  leading  doctrines  of  Christianity.  He  told 
her  of  the  depravity  of  the  natural  heart,  of  the 
necessity  of  a  change  of  heart  before  we  could 
be  fit  for,  or  happy  in  a  holy  heaven,  even  if 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  117 

admitted  there.  He  spoke  of  Jesus  Christ,  the 
Son  of  God;  his  mysterious  incarnation,  his 
wondrous  life,  and  that  death  upon  the  cross, 
whereby  he  purchased  ^salvation  for  all  those 
who  believe  in  him,  and  are  willing  to  be 
saved  by  his  atoning  blood.  He  spoke  also 
of  the  work  of  the  Holy  Spirit ;  and  how,  for 
Christ's  sake,  its  renewing  and  sanctifying  in 
fluences  are  given  to  those  who  believe ;  and 
that,  as  the  sacrifice  of  Christ  saves  us  from 
the  punishment  of  sin,  the  influence  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  will  free  us  from  the  dominion  of 
sin. 

"  Now,  Miss  Somers,"  he  concluded,  "  you 
understand  what  I  mean,  when  I  say  that  none 
of  us  are  good.  God's  restraining  grace  keeps 
us  from  much  actual  sin,  but  the  seed  of  sin  is 
born  in  our  hearts,  inherited  from  our  first 
parents,  Adam  and  Eve." 

A  new  day  seemed  to  dawn  upon  Joanna's 
mind  as  Edmund  spoke.  Her  parents  were 
not  pious,  and  though  Mrs.  Lorimer  and  some 
other  of  her  elder  relatives  had  laboured  to 


118  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

make  her  comprehend  the  truths  of  the  gospel, 
she  had  listened  compulsively,  thought  of 
religion  as  a  gloomy,  incomprehensible  thing, 
for  old  people  to  lecture  young  ones  about,  and 
dismissed  the  subject  from  her  mind  as  soon  as 
the  lesson  was  over.  But  here  was  a  hand 
some,  sensible,  elegant  boy,  only  two  years 
older  than  herself,  speaking  as  if  he  not  only 
understood,  but  felt  and  loved  what  he  talked  of. 

"  I  never  understood  so  much  about  religion 
before,"  said  Joanna,  drawing  a  deep  breath 
when  Edmund  paused.  "  Edmund  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  a  minister.  Why  don't  you 
study  to  be  a  minister  ?" 

The  blood  rushed  to  Edmund's  face ;  his 
bosom  heaved,  and  he  seemed  unable  to  speak. 
At  length,  mastering  his  emotion,  "  Why  don't 
I?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  don't  I?  If  it 
pleased  God,  I  would  give  one  half  of  my  life, 
to  be  a  preacher  of  the  gospel  for  the  rest  of  it. 
Why  don't  I?  I'll  tell  you,  Miss  Somers. 
My  parents  were  rich  once.  I  was  to  go  from 
school  to  college.  My  dear  father  was  ruined 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  119 

by  the  great  fire  in  New  York.  He  toiled  so 
hard  to  settle  his  affairs,  and  grieved  so  much 
that  any  body  should  lose  by  his  misfortunes, 
that  he  took  a  fever  and  died.  My  dear  mo 
ther  and  sister,  accustomed  to  affluence,  (and 
you  know  what  they  are,  Miss  Somers,)  must 
work  for  a  living  ;  and  even  if  I  could  go  to 
college,  I  would  not  do  it  while  I  can  be  use 
ful  to  them.  But  I  study  all  the.  spare  time  I 
have ;  and  it  is  my  daily  and  nightly  prayer, 
that  God  will  let  me  preach  his  gospel,  if  he  sees 
fit ;  and  if  he  does  see  fit,  I  am  sure  a  way  will 
be  opened  for  me,  though  I  can't  tell  how." 

The  clock  struck  ten.  Edmund  arose  and 
said  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  for  his  mother 
and  sister.  Joanna  bade  him  good  night  with 
unusual  gravity  ;  and  when  Miss  Barton  came 
out  of  Mrs.  Lorimer's  room  and  told  her  it 
was  time  to  come  to  bed,  (for  the  cousins  slept 
together,)  she  followed  in  silence,  and  did  not 
speak  until  Miss  Barton  surprised  at  her  un 
usual  taciturnity,  inquired  whether  she  was 
quite  well. 


120  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Lorimer  was  sufficiently 
well  to  take  her  usual  seat  in  the  parlour,  but 
Joanna's  thoughtful  mood  continued.  She  was, 
however,  unusually  gentle,  and  attentive  to  her 
grand-aunt's  comfort.  She  arranged  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  cushions,  placed  her  footstool  and 
reading-stand,  looked  for  her  spectacles,  and 
found  the  place  in  her  book.  When  Mrs. 
Lorimer  was  comfortably  settled,  and  began  to 
read,  Joanna  said  to  Miss  Barton,  "  If  I  can  do 
any  thing  else  for  aunt  or  you,  cousin  Susan, 
please  to  call  me,  I  am  going  into  our  room ;" 
and  she  left  the  parlour. 

Some  time  afterwards  Miss  Barton  went  out 
and  when  she  returned  she  said  to  Mrs.  Lori 
mer,  "  I  cannot  imagine  what  ails  Joanna. 
Last  night,  instead  of  chattering  while  we  were 
undressing,  as  she  usually  does,  until  I  am 
tempted  to  beg  her  to  hold  her  tongue,  she 
never  spoke  one  word,  but  looked  extremely 
serious.  This  morning  it  was  the  same.  She 
has  hardly  opened  her  lips  since  she  arose." 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  121 

"  Perhaps  she  is  not  well,"  said  Mrs 
Lorimer." 

"  I  asked  her,  and  she  said  she  was  quite 
well.  Just  now  I  went  up  stairs  to  look  for  a 
piece  of  lace ;  when  I  opened  the  door  of  our 
room,  she  was  on  her  knees  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  She  jumped  up  when  I  went  in,  and  pre 
tended  to  be  looking  for  something  on  the  floor ; 
but  my  Bible  was  lying  open  on  the  bed,  and 
the  leaf  was  wet,  as  if  tears  had  dropped  on  it. 
I  wish  you  would  question  her,  grandmother. 

"  Not  now,  Susan.  It  cannot  be  an  evil  in 
fluence  that  sends  her  to  the  Bible  in  secret. 
.  Her  mind  will  work  itself  clear ;  and  if  she  is 
not  interfered  with,  she  is  too  frank  to  withhold 
her  confidence  from  us  long.  Poor  child ! 
She  costs  me  many  an  anxious  hour." 

"  One  cannot  help  loving  her,  though  she'  is, 
at  times,  the  most  provoking  little  creature  in 
the  world.  She  half  affronted  Edmund  Field 
last  night." 

Mrs.  Lorimer  inquired  the  particulars,  and 

Miss  Barton  gave  her  the  history  of  Edmund's 
11 


122  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

nap  and  Joanna's  laughter  ;  whereat  the  old 
lady  was  considerably  amused. 

"  They  had  a  long  conversation  afterwards," 
continued  Miss  Barton,  "  and  I  fancy  it  is  some 
thing  Edmund  has  said  which  makes  her  so 
serious." 

"  Very  likely,"  replied  Mrs.  Lorimer.  "  Ed 
mund  is  a  valuable  example  for  Joanna,  and  I 
think  she  is  somewhat  improved  by  it  already. 
He  is  an  uncommon  boy.  I  never  saw  the 
Christian  graces  so  perfect  in  one  so  young. 
There  is  a  remarkable  symmetry  in  his  cha 
racter  ;  qualities  the  most  opposite  are  com 
bined,  and  so  admirably  balanced,  that  each 
supports  the  other.  I  wish  Joanna  had  such 
a  brother.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  her  that 
she  is  an  only  child.  The  clear  girl  has  fine 
elements  of  character,  but  they  are  in  a  very 
chaotic  state  at  present." 

Here  Joanna  entered,  and  the  conversation 
ceased. 

Two  days  passed,  unmarked  by  any  par 
ticular  event.  Joanna  was  much  in  her  own 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  123 

room;  and  when  she  came  into  the  parlour, 
her  beautiful  face  still  wore  a  serious  expres 
sion,  and  she  seemed  particularly  anxious  to 
offer  every  little  affectionate  attention  to  her 
aunt  and  cousin.  Both  agreed  that  she  had 
never  been  so  amiable,  and  Mrs.  Lorimer 
awaited,  with  no  little  anxiety,  the  explana 
tion  of  a  change  which  she  hoped  was  a  token 
for  good. 

Soon  after  breakfast,  on  the  third  day,  a  note 
came  to  Mrs.  Lorimer,  requesting  her  and 
Miss  Barton  to  spend  the  day  with  an  invalid 
friend.  Mrs.  Lorimer  sent  for  a  carriage,  and 
prepared  for  the  visit.  While  Phosbe  was 
bringing  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  another  note 
was  sent  up.  "  Quite  a  day  of  letters,"  said 
Mrs.  Lorimer,  opening  and  looking  over  it. 
"  From  Dr.  Henderson — arrived  last  night — 
has  settled  Wilson's  business — will  call  at  eleven 
o'clock,  &c.,  &c." 

"  This  is  awkward,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer, 
folding  up  the  note.  "  I  must  not  disappoint 
Mrs.  Glenn,  and  there  is  no  time  to  write. 


124  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

Joanna,  my  dear,  you  must  receive  the  Doctor 
for  me.  Explain  to  him  why  1  am  absent,  and 
tell  him  I  shall  be  at  home  by  five  in  the  eve 
ning,  if  he  will  be  so  good  as  to  call  then." 

Mrs.  Lorimer  was  pinning  her  shawl  about 
her  throat,  and  did  not  observe  the  delight  that 
sparkled  in  Joanna's  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

When  the  ladies  were  gone,  Joanna  took  her 
post  at  a  front  window,  and  seemed  fearful  of 
turning  her  eyes  for  a  moment  from  the  street. 
After  an  hour's  unceasing  watch,  her  patience 
was  rewarded;  she  saw  Dr.  Henderson  cross 
the  street,  and  flew  down  stairs  in  time  to  an 
swer  his  knock. 

«  So  you  are  all  alone,  Miss  Somers,"  said 
the  Doctor,  looking  round,  as  Joanna  ushered 
him  into  the  parlour.  "  Where  are  the  ladies  ?" 

Joanna  gave  him  Mrs.  Lorimer's  message. 

"  Upon  my  word  !  you  gipsy,  could  you  not 
have  told  me  this  below,  and  saved  my  lame 
foot  the  pain  of  scaling  the  Alps  of  your  stair 
case  ?" 

«I — I  forgot  your  foot,   sir — and — and — I 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  125 

wanted  to  speak  to  you  myself,"  faltered  Jo 
anna,  her  colour  changing,  and  her  breath 
coming  quick. 

The  Doctor  was  surprised  at  the  evident  agi 
tation  of  the  young  lady,  and  looked  keenly 
at  her  varying  countenance.  "  You  wanted  to 
speak  to  me,  my  dear  ?"  Come,  then,  let  me 
hear  the  mighty  secret.  Sit  down  by  me,  and 
begin.  What,  you  have  got  into  some  little 
scrape,  and  want  me  to  settle  matters  with 
your  aunt,  hey  ?" 

Joanna  instantly  ceased  to  blush  and  trem 
ble.  "  No  sir,"  said  she,  firmly,  meeting  the 
Doctor's  scrutinizing  glance  with  calm,  clear 
eyes ;  "  No  sir.  I  have  done  nothing  bad.  I 
only  want  to  tell  you  how  you  may  do  some 
thing  good." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling,  but  con 
siderably  impressed  by  her  earnest,  and  even 
lofty  manner ;  "  well,  sit  down,  my  child,  and 
tell  me  what  you  would  have  me  do." 

Thus  encouraged,  Joanna  seated  herself  on 

the  sofa  beside  the  Doctor,  and  related,  at  full 
11* 


126  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

length,  her  conversation  with  Edmund.  "  And 
now,  dear  Doctor  Henderson,"  she  concluded, 
"  you  are  very  rich,  and  I  know  you  are  very 
kind.  Cannot  you  help  Edmund  Field  to  be  a 
minister  ?  I  would  ask  papa,  but  he  is  away  ; 
and  besides — "  she  hesitated,  "  besides,  papa 
does  not  care  as  much  about  making  people 
ministers  as  you  do.  Papa  would  take  him 
into  the  counting-house,  I  know ;  but  it  would 
be  hard,  Doctor  Henderson,  wouldn't  it  ?  that 
he  should  have  to  spend  all  his  life  casting  up 
dollars  and  cents,  when  he  wants  to  be  preach 
ing  the  gospel." 

"  Bless  you,  my  dear  little  girl,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  much  affected;  "you  might 
well  tell  me  you  could  help  me  to  do  good; 
and  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  it,  Joanna." 

He  then  questioned  her  as  to  the  situation, 
character,  wishes,  and  prospects  of  the  family. 
"I  will  call  on  your  aunt  this  evening,  my 
dear,  and  have  some  talk  with  her  about  your 
friends.  If  she  thinks  as  highly  of  them  as 
you  do,  Joanna,  your  young  preacher  shall 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  127 

not  spend  his  life  in  casting  up  dollars  and 
cents." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  a  thousand  times, 
dear  Doctor  Henderson,"  said  Joanna,  taking 
his  hand  in  both  hers,  and  pressing  it  warmly ; 
"  you  are  very  good." 

"  Opportunities  for  doing  evil,  the  proverb 
says,  come  a  hundred  times  a  day ;  those  for 
doing  good,  but  once  a  year.  We  should  seize 
them  when  they  come.  Tell  your  aunt  I  shall 
wait  on  her  at  six.  Good  bye,  my  pretty  pet." 

Joanna  attended  the  Doctor  down  stairs ; 
then,  returning  with  light  steps  to  the  parlour, 
she  closed  the  door,  and,  obedient  to  the  new 
impulse  her  mind  had  received,  knelt  down 
and  thanked  God  that  he  had  put  it  into  Dr. 
Henderson's  heart  to  listen  to  her. 

According  to  promise,  at  six  in  the  evening 
the  good  Doctor  made  his  appearance.  He 
first  saw  Mrs.  Lorimer,  and,  having  heard  her 
full  and  favourable  opinion  of  Mrs.  Field  and 
her  family,  he  requested  an  interview  with  the 
lady  herself. 


128  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

The  particulars  of  their  conversation  I  never 
learned,  but,  to  judge  by  the  results,  it  must 
have  been  satisfactory  to  all  parties,  for  within 
a  month  after  it  took  place,  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Field  had  opened  a  boarding-school,  (which, 
under  the  patronage  of  the  learned  and  wealthy 
Dr.  Henderson,  soon  became  a  flourishing  esta 
blishment,)  and  Edmund  was  on  his  way  to 
Princeton  College. 


The  winter  of  this  year  set  in  with  uncom 
mon  severity,  and  Mrs.  Lorimer's  physician 
advised  her  to  lose  no  time  in  removing  to  a 
warmer  climate.  It  was  therefore  determined 
that  she  should  spend  the  winter  in  Charleston, 
and  Miss  Barton  set  about  preparing  for  the 
voyage,  with  all  possible  despatch. 

It  was  a  melancholy  day  when  Mrs.  Lori- 
mer  and  Miss  Barton  left  Mrs.  Brown's,  They 
endeared  themselves  to  every  member  of  the 


THE    YOUNG    CHRISTIAN.  129 

family,  and  when  the  carriage  containing  the 
venerable  lady  and  her  amiable  grand-daugh 
ter  ^drove  from  the  door,  Mrs.  Brown  came  up 
stairs,  and,  looking  round  the  vacant  parlour, 
sat  down  and  wept  without  restraint. 

Mrs.  Gibbs,  a  woman  who  sometimes  came 
to  assist  in  doing  house-work,  had  followed 
Mrs.  Brown  into  the  parlour,  and  stood  gaping 
at  her  with  evident  astonishment. 

"  Laws !  Mrs.  Brown,  why  you  couldn't 
take  on  worse  if  your  own  flesh  and  blood 
was  a  going  to  leave  you.  Laws !  why  I 
dare  say  you'll  soon  get  somebody  else  as 
good  pay  as  old  Mrs.  Lorimer." 

"  It  is  not  that  I'm  thinking  of,"  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  looking  up  indignantly ;  "  if  the  next 
comer  should  pay  me  twice  as  much  as  she 
did,  and  ten  times  more  to  the  back  of  that,  it 
wouldn't  pay  me  for  losing  them.  If  ever 
there  was  a  saint  on  earth,  it's  that  dear  old 
lady.  And  her  grand-daughter  ain't  far  be 
hind  her  in  goodness,  bless  her !" 

« I  reckon  they  must  a  give  you  a  good  deal 


130  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

of  trouble,"  remarked  Mrs.  Gibbs ;  "  the  old 
lady  had  sick  turns  so  often." 

"  Trouble,  indeed !  there  wasn't  one  of  the 
family,  boarders  as  well  as  ourselves,  that 
wouldn't  have  gone  on  their  hands  and  knees 
to  do  any  thing  for  Mrs.  Lorimor,  morning  or 
midnight.  I  was  sorry  enough  to  part  with 
Mrs.  Field  and  her  dear  children,  but  it's  no 
thing  to  seeing  that  dear,  dear  old  lady  leave 
the  house "  a  fresh  burst  of  tears  inter 
rupted  Mrs.  Brown's  voice. 

"  Law  !  me  !"  ejaculated  the  uncomprehend 
ing  Mrs.  Gibbs. 


INFATUATION. 


Wherefore  trace  from  what  slight  cause, 
Its  source  one  tyrant  passion  draws, 

Till  mastering  all  within  ; 
Where  lives  the  man  who  has  not  tried, 
How  mirth  can  into  folly  glide, 

And  folly  into  sin  ? — SCOTT. 


MRS.  BROWN  set  her  rooms  in  order,  and 
prepared  to  undergo  the  routine  of  inspection, 
questions,  objections,  offers,  and  demurs ;  but 
upon  this  occasion  her  patience  was  not  put  to 
a  protracted  trial.  About  a  week  after  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  departure,  she  had  a  successor  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  Selby. 

Mr.  Selby  merely  ascertained  that  the  rooms 
were  handsome  and  well  furnished,  when  he 
engaged  them  at  once ;  observing,  in  reply  to 
Mrs.  Brown's  statement  of  terms,  "  Ah  !  yes — 

very   reasonable — very    reasonable,    indeed," 

131 


132  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

with  a  carelessness  which  gave  the  good  wo 
man  a  high  opinion  of  his  wealth  and  gentility. 

Mr.  Selby  was  a  tall,  well  made  man,  about 
thirty-five,  having  a  foppishly-fashionable  air, 
an  ease  of  manner  so  elaborate  as  to  make 
every  one  else  uneasy,  an  affability  that  was 
almost  supercilious,  and  a  smile  so  perpetual 
as  to  suggest  the  idea  that  he  who  smiled  so 
much  could  seldom  smile  sincerely.  Neverthe 
less,  as  he  was  quiet  and  regular,  paid  his  bills 
punctually,  was  civil  to  Mrs.  Brown,  and  very 
liberal  to  the  domestics,  he  was  spoken  of  by 
mistress  and  servants  as  "  very  much  of  a  gen 
tleman."  He  sometimes  gave  card  parties,  and 
on  these  occasions  splendid  refreshments  were 
provided,  and  exquisite  wines  were  pressed 
upon  the  guests.  Mr.  Selby,  however,  seldom 
tasted  any  beverage  stronger  than  lemonade. 

Selby's  most  frequent  visiter  was  a  young 
student  of  medicine.  Mr.  Clerrison  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  in  Selby's  parlour,  writing 
notes,  which  he  sealed  very  carefully,  and  de 
spatched  by  Selby's  black  servant,  Mark 


INFATUATION.  133 

These  notes  were  frequently  accompanied  by 
little  parcels,  containing  books,  trinkets,  elegant 
confectionary,  foreign  fruits — in  short,  such  de 
licate  offerings  as  men  in  love  delight  in  laying 
before  the  shrine  of  their  idol-worship.  An 
swers  to  the  notes  were  sometimes  brought, 
which  always  procured  for  Mark  a  glittering 
token  of  Clerrison's  delight.  These  answers 
were  read  and  re-read,  kissed  often,  and  then 
carefully  consigned  to  the  breast-pocket  of  the 
lover's  coat. 

At  first  Clerrison  appeared  in  Selby's  par 
lour  only  in  the  daytime,  and  the  intercourse 
of  notes  was  constant.  As  the  winter  wore 
on,  he  came  seldomer  in  the  morning,  but  was 
a  frequent  guest  at  the  evening  card-parties. 
Sometimes  he  and  Selby  spent  the  evening 
alone  together :  cards  were  then  the  never- 
failing  amusement,  and  more  than  once  the  late 
winter  morning  dawned  on  them  while  thus 
engaged.  At  these  times  large  rolls  of  bank 
notes  were  transferred  from  the  pocket-book  of 

Clerrison  to  that  of  Selby.     Every  evening  so 
12 


134  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

spent  seemed  to  increase  his  fondness  for  play, 
and  if  ever  he  appeared  reluctant  to  engage  in  it, 
a  well  directed  compliment  from  Selby  on  his 
skill,  or  an  assurance  that  his  run  of  ill  luck 
must  be  nearly  out,  drew  him  again  to  the  in 
fatuating  sport.  Mean  time,  Mark  carried 
letters  less  often ;  those  written  were  shorter, 
and  seldom  accompanied  by  presents ;  while 
the  answers  were  hastily  perused,  and  not  un- 
frequently  thrust  into  the  pocket  unopened. 

One  morning  in  the  beginning  of  April, 
Clerrison  wrote  a  brief  note,  and  requested 
that  Mark  might  carry  it. 

"He  is  at  your  orders,  my  dear  fellow," 
replied  Selby,  pulling  the  bell.  "  What !  writ 
ing  to  the  little  girl  again  ?" 

"  I  promised  to  spend  last  evening  with  her. 
You  know  who  hindered  me.  Poor  Louisa; 
I  owe  her  at  least  a  civil  excuse." 

"  By  the  bye — nothing  just  now,  Mark. 
I'll  ring  again  when  you  are  wanted.  (Exit 
Mark.)  By  the  bye  what  do  you  mean  to  do 
about  her  ?" 


INFATUATION.  135 

"Ah!  there's  the  puzzle.  Poor  little  girl, 
she  is  so  dotingly  fond  of  me,  too — it  would 
break  her  heart  if " 

"  Bah  !  my  good  fellow,  women's  hearts  are 
not  so  easily  broken.  Besides,  remember  your 
old  gentleman  and  your  lady  mother,  too " 

"  Proud  as  Lucifer  she  is,  you  know.  They 
might  get  over  poor  Louy's  poverty,  but  the 
idea  of  my  marrying  a  girl  who  had  lived  in 
the  family  as  seamstress — "  Selby  interrupted 
him  with  a  loud  laugh. 

"  Marrying  her  !  my  dear  boy  !  marrying 
her  !  I  thought  you  knew  more  of  the  world 
— marrying  her !  The  only  son  of  John  Ju 
lius  Clerrison,  Esq.,  a  millionaire  of  the  Qua 
ker  city,  marrying  a  little  mantua-maker  !" 

Clerrison's  countenance  exhibited  a  mixture 
of  mortification  and  anger ;  he  bit  his  lip,  and 
Selby,  whose  keen  eye  noted  the  rising  passion, 
went  on — "  Upon  my  soul,  Clerrison,  you  must 
excuse  me."  Then,  assuming  a  serious  air, 
"  I  mean  no  disrespect  to  Miss  Brooke  ;  she's 
certainly  a  charming  girl ;  but  to  think  of  you 


136  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

— you,  with  your  advantages  of  person  and 
fortune  ;"  Clerrison's  brow  relaxed  ;  "  you, 
who  might  choose  among  the  richest  and  fair 
est — you,  who  have  such  advantages — now  a 
poor  headlong  fellow  like  myself,  might  do 
such  a  thing — but  you  who  have  such  a  sound 
judgment — " 

The  weak  boy  listened  with  credulous  plea 
sure. 

"  Selby,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "  I  believe  you 
are  my  friend." 

"  Your  friend  ! — oh  !  my  dear  fellow,  you 
know  how  sincerely " 

"  Well,"  interrupted  Clerrison,  "  I  will  con 
fide  in  you.  You  shall  know  exactly  how  I 
am  situated.  I  want  you  to  advise  me.  But 
stop;  first  I  must  finish  my  note  to  Louisa." 
He  took  up  the  pen.  "  By  the  way,  she  asked 
me,  a  week  ago,  to  bring  her  some  flower 
paintings  to  copy.  1  had  forgotten  it  entirely. 
Selby,  have  you  any  engravings  or  drawings 
to  lend  me  ?" 

"Not  I,  faith;  but  here,  this  fire-screen   is 


INFATUATION.  137 

admirably  painted.  It  belongs  to  the  house, 
but  never  mind,  we'll  borrow  it.  Miss  Brooke 
can  copy  that.  Make  haste  with  your  note, 
Clerrison,  for  I  have  an  appointment  at  two." 
Clerrison  finished  his  note.  I  was  wrapped 
in  paper,  Mark  was  summoned,  the  note  and 
myself  delivered  into  his  hands,  and  Clerrison 
sat  down  to  pour  his  confidence  into  the  ear 
of  the  gambler. 


"  A  note  and  parcel  ?  oh  !  give  me  the  note  I" 
exclaimed  a  sweet  female  voice.  The  note 
was  read,  my  covering  was  torn  off,  but,  after 
a  hasty  glance,  I  was  laid  on  the  table,  and  the 
note  was  re-perused  and  scrutinized,  as  if  the 
reader  hoped  to  discover,  by  examination,  more 
than  the  words  had  conveyed  to  her  at  first. 

I  found  myself  in  the  small  parlour  of  a  small 
house,  in  a  narrow  street.  There  was  a  rag 
carpet  on  the  floor,  a  cherry  table,  and  half  a 

dozen  cane-coloured,  wooden  chairs,  with  a 
12* 


138  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

settee  to  match,  and  a  small  mirror.  But  several 
books  were  piled  on  the  table,  a  guitar-case  lay 
under  it,  and  on  a  round  stand,  near  the  single 
window,  stood  a  little  vase  of  beautiful  china, 
holding  a  bunch  of  snow-drops.  Paper  and 
pencils  lay  beside  the  vase,  and  a  large  basket 
of  needle-work  stood  on  the  floor,  at  the  feet 
of  the  reader. 

She  was  a  fair  young  girl ;  but  her  beauty 
was  less  remarkable  than  the  anxious  sadness 
of  her  expression.  She  raised  her  eyes  from 
the  note  once  or  twice,  shook  her  head,  as  if 
indignant,  and  then  read  on.  The  indignant 
expression  softened ;  she  folded  the  note,  and 
placed  it  in  her  bosom. 

"  I  am  wrong,"  she  said,  "  F  am  unjust. 
Alas !  suffering  has  made  me  unjust.  I  am 
not  what  I  was.  Shame  on  me  to  suspect  so 
readily !  His  time  must  be  much  occupied 
now,  and  his  duties  must  be  attended  to.  He 
has  violated  one  duty  for  me.  God  forbid  that 
my  exacting  fondness  should  lead  him  to  neg 
lect  any  other.  I  have  wrought  the  web  of  my 


INFATUATION.  loi) 

own  destiny,  and  I  must  not  complain  if  it 
should  prove  to  be  a  shroud." 

Like  most  keenly  feeling  people,  when  ex 
cited,  Louisa  had  a  habit  of  talking  to  herself. 
She  went  on. 

"  Charles  !  dear  Charles  !  Forgive  me,  if  in 
my  sorrow  I  doubt  your  affection.  But  oh ! 
my  heart  aches  with  such  wearying  pain." 
She  took  me  up  from  the  table.  "  It  is  beauti 
ful — very  beautiful — and  it  is  very  kind  in  him 
to  think  of  my  wish,  but  I  cannot  copy  it  now. 
I  feel  too  wretched,  and  I  have  work  that  must 
be  done."  She  gathered  up  the  pencils  and 
paper.  «  I  thought  to  paint  you  to-day,"  said 
she,  addressing  the  snow-drops,  "but  you  must 
even  wither,  as  I  am  like  to  do,  unremembered. 
Oh  !  Charles,  there  was  a  time  when  no  pres 
sure  of  business,  no  call  of  duty  would  have 
kept  you  away  from  me  for  three  days.  I  have 
uo  pleasure  in  any  thing  now.  When  he 
valued  my  talents,  I  was  proud  of  them,  and 
tried  to  improve  them  for  his  sake.  And  I 
tried  hard.  No  wonder  I  look  so  pale,  when  I 


140  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

have  stolen  so  many  hours  from  sleep  that  I 
might  read,  and  draw,  and  practise,  so  as  to 
make  myself  a  fit  companion  for  him  when  the 
time  comes.  Oh  !  my  God — has  he  ceased  to 
wish  it  to  come  !" 

She  burst  into  tears,  wringing  her  hands, 
and  sobbing  in  all  the  agony  of  a  grief  seem 
ingly  heightened  by  doubt  and  fear.  Her  tears 
apparently  relieved  her,  for  she  sat  up  after  a 
few  minutes  of  this  bitter  indulgence,  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  said  in  a  resolute  tone,  "  This 
must  not  be.  I  have  brought  the  trial  on  my 
self  and  I  will  bear  it,  but  I  will  not  live  long 
in  this  mean  and  miserable  suspense."  She  left 
the  room,  and  presently  returned,  having 
smoothed  her  disordered  hair,  and  bathed  her 
swollen  eyes.  It  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  a  crea 
ture  so  young  and  lovely,  so  very  miserable. 
External  evils  may  be  borne  or  remedied,  "  but 
a  wounded  spirit,  who  can  bear."  Louisa  sat 
down  by  her  work-basket,  and  taking  out 
what  appeared  to  be  a  portion  of  trimming  for 
a  rich  dress,  began  to  work  diligently,  betray- 


INFATUATION.  141 

ing  her  inward  emotion  only  by  occasional 
sighs.  Once  she  began  to  sing,  but  after  mur 
muring  a  few  lines,  she  stopped.  "I  cannot 
sing.  The  last  time  I  sang  and  played  to  him, 
he  praised  Miss  Dupont's  harp." 

While  she  sat  at  her  sewing,  a  carriage  thun 
dered  along  the  street,  and  stopped  at  the  door. 
Louisa  started  up,  threw  some  of  the  books 
into  the  table  drawer,  and  turned  to  receive  the 
ladies  who  entered  They  were  tall,  handsome, 
and  fashionable-looking  women,  sufficiently 
alike  in  dress  and  person,  to  be  immediately 
known  for  sisters ;  but  the  younger  was  dis 
tinguished  by  a  pleasanter  expression,  and 
milder  voice.  Louisa  courtesied,  and  hastened, 
with  trembling  hands  to  place  chairs. 

"  Well;  Miss  Brooke,"  began  the  elder  lady, 
in  a  harsh,  imperious  tone,  "  I  have  called,  as 
I  sent  you  word,  to  have  my  dress  fitted. 
Make  haste,  if  you  please.  I  have  no  time  to 
spare." 

"You  don't  look  well,  Louisa,"  observed 
the  younger,  in,  a  kind  tone.  "  Take  your 


142  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

time  with  Elvira's  dress.  I  can  call  again 
about  mine." 

"  They  are  both  ready,  ladies,  so  soon  as  I 
have  tacked  on  this  trimming.  Shall  I  fix  on 
yours  before  you  try  it,  Miss  Clerrison  ?"  to 
the  elder  lady.  Miss  Clerrison  nodded  assent, 
and  Louisa  quitted  the  parlour,  taking  the 
trimming  in  her  hand. 

"  How  pale  poor  Louisa  looks,"  said  the 
younger  sister.  «  I  am  sure  this  dress-making 
does  not  agree  with  her.  When  she  lived  with 
us  she  was  as  fresh  as  a  rose." 

"  I  suppose  she  is  fretting  after  Charles," 
replied  Miss  Clerrison,  coldly.  "A  presump 
tuous  thing  !  I  don't  pity  her  at  all ; — what 
business  had  she  to  turn  her  eyes  on  Charles 
Clerrison  ?" 

"  What  business,  then,  had  Charles  Clerrison 
to  turn  his  eyes  on  her  ?  Louisa  's  poor,  to  be 
sure,  but  her  family  was  quite  as  good  as  ours, 
and  she  is  handsome,  sensible,  and  virtuous. 
Charles  may  go  farther  and  fare  worse." 

"  Julia,  don't  provoke  me.     Charles  Clerri- 


INFATUATION.  143 

son,  who  might  marry  into  one  of  the  first 
families  in  the  United  States,  to  take  for  a  wife 
a  girl  who  has  been  his  mother's  seamstress  !" 
"  Her  having  been  a  seamstress  makes  her 
neither  better  nor  worse,  except  as  it  affects 
her  manners  and  character.  Now,  if  she  were 
vulgar,  ignorant,  or  unprincipled,  that  would 
be  another  affair;  but  if  she  is  calculated  to 
adorn  and  enjoy  a  higher  station,  it  would 
only  be  according  to  the  natural  fitness  of 
things,  to  help  her  into  it." 

"  What  a  horrid  leveller  you  are,  Julia." 
"  No,  sister.  I  am  as  thorough  an  aristocrat 
as  an  American  ought  to  be.  I  would  have 
distinct  ranks  in  society,  for  I  think  that  God 
has  ordained  them,  and  man  is  made  wretched 
by  striving  to  abolish  them ;  but  I  would  not 
have  rank  to  dependon  wealth.  I  would  bow 
first  to  the  aristocracy  of  Virtue,  then  come  the 
claims  of  Genius.  I  have,  I  confess,  a  little 
leaning  to  pride  of  birth,  for  who  would  not 
rejoice  in  the  blood  of  Washington  or  Frank 
lin  ?  But  pride  of  purse — oh  !  I  do  despise  it." 


144  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

"  I  suppose,  then,  you  would  advise  Charles 
to  behave  like  a  fool,  and  marry  Louisa 
Brooke  ?" 

"  You  know  me  better  than  to  suppose  that 
I  would  advise  Charles  to  do  what  would  so 
incense  our  parents ;  but  better  behave  like  a 
fool  than  a  villain — if,  indeed,  it  is  possible  to 
be  one  without  being  the  other.  However,  if 
Charles  were  to  marry  Louisa,  in  my  opinion 
she  would  get  the  worst  of  it." 

«  Julia  Clerrison  !" 

{t  Yes.  Louisa  is  a  strong-minded,  warm 
hearted  girl.  She  is  handsome  and  well  man 
nered  enough  to  be  introduced  into  any  circle, 
and  has  supplied  the  deficiencies  of  her  early 
education  to  a  surprising  extent.  Charles  is 
weak  and  fickle — her  steadiness  of  character 
might  support  the  instability  of  his;  though 
I  really  doubt  whether  he  can  appreciate  such 
affection  as  Louisa  would  give." 

"  Your  brother  is  very  much  obliged  to  you," 
said  Miss  Clerrison,  with  increasing  asperity ; 
"  but  he  shall  never  marry  beneath  him  if  I 


INFATUATION.  145 

can  help  it ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  if  it  was 
not  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  girl's  movements, 
she  should  never  make  another  dress  for  me. 
I  wonder  if  she  is  going  to  keep  us  all  day," 

The  impatient  lady  was  stepping  to  the  door, 
when  Louisa  entered,  laken  with  the  ball- 
dresses.  They  were  tried  on,  and,  after  much 
ill-humoured  fault-finding  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Clerrison,  the  final  directions  were  given,  and 
the  ladies  departed,  Miss  Julia  dropping  her 
glove  as  she  bade  Louisa  good  bye.  The  front 
door  was  heard  to  open,  but  Miss  Julia,  ex 
claiming  "  Pray  stop  a  moment,  sister,  I  have 
dropped  my  glove,"  ran  back  into  the  parlour, 
and,  flying  to  Louisa,  whispered, "  Dear  Louisa, 
you  look  wretchedly.  I  would  advise  you 
to  try  country  air  for  a  few  weeks.  Go  to 
Camden  or  Germantown.  Don't  sew  too  con 
stantly," 

"  Julia !"  exclaimed  Miss  Clerrison,  from 
the  entry. 

"  Pm  coming.     If  you  are  short  of  money, 

dear   Lony,  my  purse   is  yours.     God  bless 
13 


146  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

you."  She  threw  her  arms  around  Louisa's 
neck,  kissed  her  fervently,  and  ran  out  of  the 
room. 

Louisa  sat  still,  her  bosom  heaving  con 
vulsively,  but  she  did  not  allow  herself  to 
weep.  "  It  is  hard,  hard  to  bear,"  she  said  at 
length;  hard  to  bear  from  his  sister.  And 
yet  Julia's  kindness  cuts  deeper  than  Elvira's 
pride  ;  but  still  it  comforts  me.  Sweet,  sweet 
Julia ;  Heaven  reward  you  for  the  balm  you 
have  poured  into  my  heart  this  day.  Oh ! 
Charles,  I  suffer  a  great  deal  for  your  sake ;  but 
if  you  smile  the  whole  world  may  frown." 

Steadily  repressing  her  feelings,  she  arranged 
her  scattered  work,  and  sat  down  again  to  her 
needle  ;  but  this  was  to  be  a  fateful  day  to  poor 
Louisa.     Scarcely  was  she  engaged  with  her 
work,  when  there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the 
street  door,  and  presently  a  young  man  rushed 
into  the  parlour,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
"My  dear  Louisa — my  darling  sister  !" 
"My  brother!  my  own  dear  Allen  !" 
These    and    similar  disjointed    expressions 


INFATUATION.  147 

of  affection  were  all  that  passed  between  the 
brother  and  sister  for  some  time.  When  the 
excitement  of  meeting  began  to  subside,  Mr. 
Brooke  sat  down  on  the  settee,  and  drew 
Louisa  down  beside  him. 

"  Come,  Louisa,  and  sit  beside  me.  Let  me 
feel  at  home  once  more.' 

"  Let  me  get  you  something  to  eat,  first ; 
you  must  be  hungry  as  well  as  tired/ 

"  Well,  I  should  enjoy  a  cup  of  tea — home, 
tea,  Louisa.  I  breakfasted  on  board  the  steam 
boat,  and  was  too  impatient  to  swallow  any 
thing  at  dinner  time." 

Tea  was  prepared  as  quickly  as  possible. 
When  Allen  had  satisfied  his  appetite,  he 
stretched  himself  out  on  the  settee,  and  his 
sister  put  a  cushion  under  his  head. 

"  Oh  !  how  comfortable  this  is.  <  Be  it  ever 
so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home.'  Oh  ! 
how  tired  I  am.  I  have  travelled  night  and 
day  since  I  left  St.  Louis.  Come  sit  by  me, 
dearest,  and  tell  me  all  that  has  happened. 
Did  you  get  the  money  I  remitted?" 


148  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

"Safely.     Had  you  a  pleasant  journey  ?" 

"  Very.  It  is  worth  a  western  tour  to  look 
at  the  beautiful  country.  I  might  have  lin 
gered  a  little,  but  your  letter,  my  darling,  after 
having  been  twice  sent  to  wrong  places,  met 
me  at  St.  Louis,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  hastening 
%to  you." 

Louisa  seemed  confused,  and  said,  hurriedly, 
"Did  you  succeed?" 

"  Entirely.  Wilkins  and  Brooke  open  store 
on  the  first  of  June.  We  have  little  time 
enough,  Louy,  for  preparations  and  journey. 
Once  away  from  Philadelphia,  this  dear  cheek 
will  bloom  again,  I  hope.  And  if  our  little 
capital  should  be  the  seed  of  a  goodly  harvest, 
and  Charles  is  constant,  sister,  why,  Miss  Louisa 
Brooke,  the  sister  of  the  rich  western  merchant, 
may My  dear  sister !" 

Louisa's  head  had  sunk  on  her  brother's 
shoulder,  and  she  wept  with  convulsive  vio 
lence. 

"  Louisa,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Compose 
yourself,  my  dear  girl,  you  alarm  me." 


INFATUATION.  149 

"  Oh  !  brother,  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you,  Louisa ;  what  have  I  to  for 
give  ?  Is'it  possible "  he  seized  his  sis 
ter's  arm,  and  his  lips  grew  white,  as  he  looked 
searchingly  in  her  face. 

Louisa  understood  the  mute  agony  of  his 
asking  look,  and  eagerly  replied,  "  No,  no ; 
oh!  no,  brother,  no — not  that;  thank  Heaven, 
not  that !  but  I  am  scarcely  less  miserable,  and 
perhaps  not  less  guilty." 

"  Collect  yourself  at  once,  Louisa,  and  ex 
plain." 

«  Allen,  I  am  married." 

"  Married  ! — and  to  Charles  Clerrison.  Oh ! 
Louisa — and  secretly  married,  of  course." 

Louisa  bowed  her  head. 

Allen  started  from  the  settee  and  walked 
about  the  room.  "  Married  !  This  I  did  not 
expect.  Clandestinely,  too.  And  his  proud, 
insolent,  unfeeling  family.  Louisa,  where  was 
your  self-respect — your  pride — your  honest 
pride — your  delicacy  ?" 

"  Spare  me,  brother,"  said  Louisa,  clasping 
13* 


150  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

her  hands  entreatingly.  "All  that  you  can 
say,  I  have  said  to  myself.  I  have  done  wrong. 
I  feel  that  I  have — dreadfully,  perh&ps  fatally 
wrong.  But  I  have  wrought  my  own  fate, 
and  will  abide  by  it.  I  love  Charles,  and  if  he 
continues  to  love  me " 

"  If — Louisa,  that  if  betrays  that  he  has  al 
ready  given  you  cause  to  doubt  it.  And  why, 
if  you  are  his  wife,  do  I  find  you  still  toiling 
in  this  occupation  ?"  touching  her  work-basket 
with  his  foot. 

"Not  with  his  good  will,"  eagerly  replied 
Louisa.  "  He  entreated,  he  almost  commanded 
me  to  give  it  up,  but  I  refused.  Partly  to  ward 
off  suspicion,  and  partly  because,  until  I  was 
his  acknowledged  wife,  I  could  not  bear  to  owe 
my  support  to  him.  Oh  !  brother,  you  know 
not  how  terrible  a  struggle  I  went  through  be 
fore  I  yielded  to  the  weakness  of  my  heart. 
I  wrote  to  you  when  I  felt  my  resolution  fail 
ing.  Had  my  letter  reached  you  in  time " 

"  Oh  !  that  it  had.  My  poor  sister,  you  must 
have  suffered.  But  this  must  not  go  on,  I 


INFATUATION.  151 

will  see  Charles.  If  he  is  willing  to  acknow 
ledge  his  marriage,  very  well.  You  must  ex 
pect  some  bitter  trials,  but  any  thing  is  prefer 
able  to  a  life  of  deceit." 

"  Oh !  yes,  indeed.  And  if  my  husband 
continues  to  love  me,  I  am  ready  and  willing 
to  brave  all  consequences.  Come  what  may, 
I  shall  be  happy.  It  is  only  for  his  sake  I 
would  avoid  his  father's  anger;  he  will  turn 
Charles  out  of  doors." 

"  He  has  deserved  his  father's  anger ;  and  our 
doors  are  open  to  him.  Our  home  is  humble, 
Louisa,  and  Charles  has  been  a  spoiled  child ; 
but  we  will  toil  for  him,  darling,  as  willingly 
as  we  have  done  for  each  other,  and  if  he 
loves  you,  he  will  soon  learn  to  strive  for 
himself." 

Louisa  threw  herself  into  Allen's  arms.     He 
kissed  her  fondly,  and  resumed — 
"  I  will  go  to  Charles  immediately." 

"  But  you  are  both  hasty.  Dear  brother " 

«  Don't  be  afraid,  Louisa.  I  will  consult  my 
friend  Martin,  and  take  him  with  me.  1  will 


152  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

deliver  a  packet  of  importance  with  which  I 
am  charged,  and  then  seek  Charles.  Do  you 
go  and  lie  down,  you  look  exhausted.  I  will 
return  to  you  as  soon  as  possible." 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  left  the  room  and 
the  house.  Louisa  listened  till  the  street-door 
closed,  then,  snatching,  up  a  pencil,  she  wrote  a 
few  lines,  wrapped  them  up  with  me  in  a  par 
cel,  and  summoning  her  only  domestic,  directed 
the  girl  to  go  to  Mrs.  Brown's  boarding-house, 
ask  to  see  Mr.  Selby,  and  desire  him  to  give 
that  parcel  as  directed. 


The  girl  fulfilled  her  commission,  and  Selby, 
restoring  me  to  my  former  station  on  the  man 
telpiece,  handed  the  note  to  Clerrisori.  Wine 
and  cigars  were  on  the  table ;  two  young  men 
were  lounging  on  the  sofa,  and  smoking.  Cler- 
rison  sat  near  the  wine,  of  which  he  drank 
frequently.  Selby  occupied  an  arm-chair  near 
the  fire. 


INFATUATION.  153 

« I'll  tell  you  what  I  would  do,  Clerrison," 
said  one  of  the  youths  on  the  sofa,  knocking 
the  ashes  off  his  cigar.  "  I'd  cut  the  concern, 
and  go  to  Texas.  I  would,  upon  my  soul." 

"  Easier  said  than  done,  Harrington ;  espe 
cially  as  this  note  from  my  wife  tells  me  that 
her  brother  is  in  town.  I  wish  he  had  never 
left  it,  for  he  kept  a  hawk's  eye  over  Louisa, 
and  would  have  seen  her  dead  rather  than  pri 
vately  married." 

"  Cannot  you  get  somebody  to  take  her  off 
your  hands,  eh  !  Clerry  ?" 

The  face  of  the  half  intoxicated  boy  flushed 
with  something  like  shame,  and  there  was 
emotion  in  his  voice  as  he  replied,  "  Come, 
Harrington,  that's  going  .rather  too  far.  If  Miss 
Brooke  had  not  been  so  cursedly  virtuous,  she 
never  would  have  been  my  wife." 

" A  gentleman,  sar,  wants  to  see  Mr.  Cler 
rison,"  said  Mark,  throwing  open  the  parlour 
door,  and  Allen  Brooke  walked  into  the  centre 
of  the  astonished  group.  "Mr.  Selby,  I  pre- 


154  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

sume,"  said  he,  glancing  round  and  bowing  to 
Selby. 

"  At  your  service,  sir."  rising  and  returning 
the  bow. 

•"  You  will  excuse  this  intrusion,  Mr.  Selby ; 
having  important  business  with  Mr.  Clerrison, 
1  called  at  his  father's  house,  and,  not  finding 
him,  inquired  where  I  should  be  likely  to  meet 
with  him.  I  was  directed  here.  Mr.  Clerrison, 
will  you  take  a  short  walk  with  me  ?  I  have 
something  particular  to  say  to  you." 

Clerrison  quailed  before  the  quiet  determina 
tion  of  his  brother-in-law's  manner,  and  me 
chanically  rose  to  accompany  him. 

"  Pray  sit  down,  Mr.  Brooke,"  interfered 
Selby,  with  flourishing  politeness  ;  "  all  friends 
here — beg  leave  to  congratulate  you.  You  will 
take  a  glass  of  wine  with  us,  to  the  health  of 
Mrs.  Charles  Clerrison  ?" 

"  You  have  declared  your  marriage,  then  ?" 
said  Brooke,  steadily,  and  disregarding  Selby's 
invitation. 

Clerrison  bowed. 


INFATUATION.  155 

"To  your  parents?" 

He  stammered  a  negative. 

«  Will  you  walk  out  with  me,  Mr.  Clerrison  ; 
or  is  it  your  wish  that  our  business  should  be 
discussed  before  the  present  company  ?" 

The  youth  who  had  advised  Clerrison  to 
desert  his  wife  and  go  to  Texas,  arose,  mut 
tered  something  about  not  wishing  to  intrude, 
and  left  the  room.  Brooke  stood  waiting  for 
Clerrison's  answer,  and  Clerrison  looked  in 
awkward  embarrassment  from  one  to  the  other. 

The  other  young  man  on  the  sofa,  who  had 
not  yet  spoken,  but  had  been  an  attentive  ob 
server  of  Clerrison's  manner,  now  arose  and 
addressed  Allen. 

"  I  believe  I  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking 
to  Mr.  Brooke  ?" 

An  affirmative  bow  was  the  answer. 

"  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Charles  Clerrison  once 
or  twice,  though  I  have  never  been  presented 
to  her.  Mr.  Clerrison"  (with  emphasis) "  knows 
me  for  his  friend.  I  strenuously  opposed  his 
marriage  until  it  took  place.  The  irrevoca- 


156  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

ble  step  being  taken,  1  now  say,  that  the  duties 
he  has  voluntarily  assumed,  render  it  impera 
tive  on  him  to  acknowledge  his  marriage  as 
soon  as  possible.  Knowing  my  opinion,  I 
trust,  Mr.  Brooke,  that  you  will  appreciate  my 
motives  when  I  offer  my  services  to  you  and 
Mr.  Clerrison  in  the  arrangement  of  your  plans. 
Here  is  my  card." 

"Mr.  Curtis,"  said  Allen,  looking  at  the 
card,  and  grasping  his  offered  hand,  "  I  thank 
you.  Most  gratefully  do  I  accept  your  offer, 
especially  as  the  friend  whose  company  here  I 
meant  to  request,  is  unexpectedly  absent." 

"  In  my  opinion,  then,"  said  Curtis,  "  the 
proper,  indeed  the  only  course  for  Mr.  Clerri 
son  to  take,  as  a  man  of  honour,  is  to  acknow 
ledge  his  marriage  immediately.  Mr.  Clerrison, 
senior,  will  doubtless  be  very  indignant,  for  I 
know  he  had  particular  views  for  his  son;  ne 
vertheless,  this  difficulty  must  be  met." 

"You  do  not  know  my  father,"  interposed 
Charles.  "  He  will  be  furious.  It  is  for  Louisa's 
sake " 


INFATUATION.  157 

"  For  your  wife's  sake,"  continued  Curtis, 
"the  disclosure  should  be  immediate.  Mrs. 
Charles  must  be  in  a  state  of  mind  most  pain 
ful  and  mortifying  to  a  woman  of  sensibility. 
No  man  has  a  right  to  inflict  such  suffering ; 
especially  on  the  woman  he  professes  to  love, 
or  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  protect." 

Brooke  had  with  difficulty  kept  silence 
hitherto ;  he  could  refrain  no  longer. 

"  My  sister  will  not  be  without  a  protector 
while  I  live,  Mr.  Curtis." 

"  A  woman's  happiness,  my  dear  sir,  needs 
to  be  protected  as  well  as  her  reputation. 
Your  sister  has  placed  that  sacred  deposite  in 
her  husband's  hands.  He  must  now  be  re 
sponsible  for  it.  But  we  are  wandering  from 
the  business  in  hand.  Charles,  your  marriage 
must  be  declared  some  time  or  other.  Your 
father's  just  displeasure  must  be  encountered. 
Is  it  likely  he  will  be  less  displeased  six  months 
or  a  year  hence,  than  he  will  be  to-day?" 

"  But  my  studies  are  not  finished.     I  cannot 

take  my  degree  till  next  year.     I  have  nothing 
14 


158  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

independent  of  my  father — he  makes  me  a 
handsome  allowance  now — when  he  knows  I 
am  married,  he  will  cast  me  off.  How  am  1 
to  maintain  Louisa  and  myself?" 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that  before  !" 
exclaimed  Brooke,  sternly ;  while  Curtis'  lip 
curled  with  an  expression  of  impatient  con 
tempt. 

"  But  I  say  to  you,  as  I  have  already  said  to 
Louisa,  you  shall  share  our  means.  My  sister 
can  endure  poverty,  but  her  peace  and  honour 
shall  not  be  trifled  with  any  longer." 

"Mr.  Brooke,"  said  Curtis,  warmly,  "I 
honour  you." 

"  My  patience  has  been  tried  to  the  utmost," 
said  Brooke,  struggling  to  preserve  his  calm 
ness.  li  Not  one  word  or  look  of  yours,  Mr. 
Clerrison,  has  been  such  as  a  brother  can  re 
ceive  with  satisfaction ;  but  for  Louisa's  sake, 
I  will  try  to  forbear.  Mr.  Curtis  you  have 
merited  perfect  frankness  at  my  hands.  I  wish 
to  put  you  in  possession  of  the  facts  of  the 
case.  That  gentleman's  father  and  mine  were 


INFATUATION.  159 

old  acquaintances.  By  the  fluctuations  of 
commerce,  he  grew  rich  while  we  grew  poor. 
Louisa  and  I  were  early  orphans.  Mrs.  Cler- 
rison  took  Louisa  into  her  family  as  seamstress, 
when  she  was  about  fourteen.  I  went  into  a 
dry  goods  store.  When  I  had  learned  the 
business,  I  obtained  employment  as  a  clerk. 
My  sister  has  great  skill  at  her  needle,  and 
Mrs.  Clerrison  paid  her  liberally.  We  were 
anxious  to  have  a  home  of  our  own,  and  that 
I  should  go  into  business  on  my  own  account. 
Every  cent  that  we  could  save  has  been 
hoarded  for  this  purpose.  About  a  year  ago, 
I  noticed  that  my  sister  was  losing  her  health 
and  spirits.  I  inquired  the  cause,  and  she  con 
fessed  that  Charles  Clerrison  had  courted  her 
secretly  for  some  time,  and  that  he  had  made 
an  impression  on  her  affections.  Girlish  timid 
ity  made  her  unwilling  to  tell  me  this,  but  she 
had  struggled  with  her  feelings  till  her  health 
sunk  under  them.  She  knew  his  family  would 
never  hear  of  such  an  alliance,  and  begged  me 
to  take  her  from  the  house.  My  plan  was 


160  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

formed  at  once.  I  took  a  small  house,  and  we 
went  to  house-keeping.  Still  intent  on  our 
grand  object,  we  lived  as  frugally  as  possible. 
I  continued  in  rny  clerkship,  and  my  dear 
Louisa  worked  at  embroidery  and  dress 
making.  Louisa  behaved  nobly  ;  she  sincerely 
and  steadily  tried  to  overcome  her  ill-starred 
affection,  but  her  disposition,  poor  girl,  is  con 
stancy  itself.  Last  September,  I  had  an  excel 
lent  offer  of  entering  into  a  partnership,  and 
settling  at  St.  Louis.  I  went  out  to  see  the 
place,  and  ascertain  the  chances  of  success  be 
fore  I  closed  the  engagement.  I  was  taken  ill 
on  the  road  which  delayed  me  a  long  time,  and 
after  my  arrival  at  St.  Louis,  I  had  a  relapse. 
During  my  prolonged  absence,  Mr.  Clerrison 
sought  Louisa  again.  He  did  every  thing  man 
could  do,  to  convince  her  that  his  happiness 
depended  on  her  becoming  his  wife.  Louisa 
held  out  for  a  long  time,  but  she  is  not  quite 
eighteen  ;  she  loves  him,  and  thought  she  had 
every  reason  to  confide  in  the  strength  of  his 
attachment.  She  felt  her  resolution  failing,  and 


INFATUATION.  161 

wrote  to  me,  asking  what  she  had  better  do. 
The  letter  miscarried.  She  waited  in  vain 
for  an  answer ;  Charles  was  near  her,  pleading 
his  own  cause.  The  moment  I  was  able  I 
hastened  back.  I  came  too  late — and  believe 
me,  Mr.  Curtis,  the  rich  Mr.  Clerrison  cannot 
more  bitterly  regret  this  ill-assorted  marriage, 
than  poor  Allen  Brooke." 

"  I  believe  you,"  answered  Curtis  meaningly. 
"  I  thank  you  for  this  confidence.  Charles,  I 
will,  if  you  authorize  me  to  do  so,  wait  on 
your  father  immediately,  and  break  the  matter 
to  him  as  gently  as  possible.  You  will  trust 
me,  Mr.  Brooke  ?" 

Allen's  eyes  glistened  as  he  replied,  "  With 
my  life.  With  more,  Louisa's  peace." 

Curtis  looked  at  his  watch.  "  It  is  near  six 
o'clock.  I  will  go  to  Mr.  Clerrison  this  mo 
ment.  You,  Charles,  had  better  go  to  my 
lodgings,  and  I  will  meet  you  and  Mr.  Brooke 
there  at  nine  o'clock.  I  hope  I  shall  have  good 
news  to  tell  you." 

Selby  who  had  cautiously  refrained  from  in- 
14* 


162  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

terfering,  now  hastened  to  declare,  with  many 
over-strained  professions  of  friendship,  that  his 
apartments  were  entirely  at  the  service  of  his 
dear  friend  Clerrison,  and  in  spite  of  the  visible 
reluctance  of  Curtis  and  Brooke,  it  was  settled 
that  Charles  should  await  the  result  of  the  em 
bassy  in  Selby's  parlour,  Selby  professing  to 
have  an  engagement  abroad. 


Nine  o'clock  came.  Brooke  was  shown  in 
as  the  last  stroke  of  the  hour  pealed  from  the 
State  House  clock,  and  he  was  hardly  seated 
before  Curtis  ran  into  the  room,  out  of  breath, 
his  countenance  indicating  considerable  satis 
faction. 

"  Good  news,  my  dear  Charles.  Mr.  Brooke, 
I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  see  you." 

"  Is  my  father  satisfied  ?"  eagerly  asked 
Charles,  looking,  however,  as  if  it  would  not 
have  distressed  him  much,  had  he  been  told 
that  his  father  insisted  on  having  the  marriage 
annulled. 


INFATUATION.  163 

"  Satisfied  !  why  Charles,  that's  rather  too 
much  to  expect — when  a  man  has  been  dis 
appointed  in  the  first  wish  of  his  heart,  and 
by  an  only  son,  too.  However,  on  the  whole, 
the  old  gentleman  has  behaved  nobly.  It  will 
be  all  your  own  fault  if — Mr.  Brooke,  I  beg 
your  pardon  again.  I  am  keeping  you  in  sus 
pense.  I'll  begin  at  the  beginning.  I  asked 
for  your  father,  Charles,  and  was  shown  into 
the  library.  The  old  gentleman  was  reading 
the  newspaper.  I  began  as  cautiously  as  pos 
sible;  however,  he  took  the  alarm,  and  bade 
me  speak  out  at  once,  in  a  way  that  I  should 
not  have  liked,  if  his  head  had  not  been  as 
white  as  my  own  dear  old  father's.  Well,  I 
unfolded  the  mystery,  setting  things  out  to  the 
best  advantage ;  and  he  listened  with  his  lips 
squeezed  close,  till  I  had  done.  It's  surprising 
how  soon  one  finishes  when  one  is  not  inter 
rupted,  and  1  was  obliged  to  come  to  a  stop. 
Then  the  storm  burst  out.  I  thought  there 
was  no  hope  for  you,  Charles,  I  confess ;  but 
when  Mr.  Clerrison  had  raved  himself  out  of 


164  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

breath,  he  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  for  your 
mother  arid  sisters.  Then  the  hurricane  raged 
again.  Mrs.  Clerrison  was  frantic.  Miss  Cler- 
rison  heaped  fuel  on  the  fire,  but  your  sister 
Julia,  bless  her  little  heart !  took  your  part. 
She  hung  round  her  father's  neck,  owned  that 
Charles  had  done  very  wrong — but  then  she 
reminded  him  how  Charles  and  Louisa  had 
been  brought  up  together :  '  and  you  know, 
papa,  you  used  to  love  Louisa,  and  take  her 
on  your  knee  when  she  was  a  little  girl ;  and 
I'm  sure  Louisa  loves  -you  as  if  you  were  her 
own  father;  and  she's  pretty  and  good  enough 
for  any  body  to  be  proud  of ' 

"  God  bless  her  !"  ejaculated  Allen. 

" t  And  she  has  every  thing  but  money,  papa, 
and  you  can  give  her  that.'  In  short,  I  am  a 
bad  narrator,  but  the  end  of  it  was,  Mr.  Cler 
rison  desired  the  ladies  to  retire,  and  then  said, 
'  Mr.  Curtis,  I  must  take  a  little  time  for  reflec 
tion.  I  am  severely  shocked.'  I  begged  to 
know  when  I  should  wait  on  him  again.  It 
was  then  seven  o'clock.  He  looked  at  his 


INFATUATION.  165 

watch,  and  said,  in  one  hour.  I  took  my  leave, 
and  walked  about  until  the  hour  expired ;  at 
eight  o'clock  I  presented  myself  before  him. 
He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  library, 
looking  troubled,  but  not  angry.  He  asked 
me  to  sit  down,  and  said,  l  Mr.  Curtis,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind.  I  will  give  you  a  message 
for  Charles.  I  do  not  feel  able  to  write.  You 
will  promise  to  deliver  it  word  for  word  ?'  I 
bowed  and  promised. 

« <  Tell  Charles/  said  he,  '  that  I  regret  his 
marriage,  not  only  because  it  destroys  my  long- 
cherished  hopes,  and  because  he  has  insulted 
and  disobeyed  his  parents  in  contracting  it,  but 
because  I  think  his  conduct  a  proof  that  he 
will  give  his  wife  cause  to  regret  it  too.  Charles 
is  a  boy,  an  unsteady  boy,  and  with  shame  I 
confess  it,  a  spoiled  boy ;  he  was  the  child  of 
my  old  age.'  The  poor  old  gentleman  turned 
away,  and  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes. 
Charles,  I  could  have  knocked  you  down  just 
then.  «  However/  he  resumed,  '  what's  done 
can't  be  undone.  Miss  Brooke  is  a  worthy 


166  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

girl,  and  her  brother  a  fine  young  man.  These 
are  the  conditions  I  give  you  leave  to  propose 
to  my  son.  I  am  far  from  satisfied  with  what 
I  have  heard  of  his  general  conduct  this  win 
ter.  If  he  v/ill  consent  to  live  apart  from  his 
wife  for  one  year/ — hear  me  out,  Mr.  Brooke. 
*  If  he  will  consent  to  live  apart  from  his  wife 
for  one  year ;  if  he  will  spend  that  year  quietly 
under  his  father's  roof — if  he  will  give  up  all 
his  dissipated  companions,  and  attend  to  his 
studies,  so  that  he  may  pass  his  examination 
with  credit — at  the  end  of  that  time,  I  will  re 
ceive  his  wife  as  my  daughter.  I  will  buy  a 
house  and  furnish  it  completely  for  them,  and 
supply  Charles  with  all  that  is  necessary  for  a 
handsome  outset  in  his  profession.  During  the 
year  of  probation,  I  will  continue  his  present 
allowance,  and  I  will  provide  for  the  support 
of  Miss  Brooke  as  a  gentlewoman ;  but  they 
must  not  see  each  other.' " 

"  Miss  Brooke  has  a  brother  who  will  pro 
vide  for  her  support,"  said  Allen,  proudly. 

«I    remonstrated,"   continued    Mr.   Curtis, 


INFATUATION.  167 

"  against  the  clause  which  forbade  them  to  see 
each  other;  but  Mr.  Clerrison  was  inflexible. 
<  I  know  my  son  better  than  you  do,'  said  he. 
"  Unstable  as  water,  he  shall  not  excel.'  I  have 
much  to  forgive,  much  to  bear  with  in  this 
cruel  disappointment  of  all  my  hopes ;  and 
believe  me,  it  is  for  Miss  Brooke's  welfare,  no 
less  than  his  own,  that  I  insist  on  these  condi 
tions.  If  they  continue  to  love  each  other,  very 
well ;  they  shall  have  my  blessing.  If  not,  it 
will  be  better  for  them  both,  that  their  childish 
marriage  should  be  annulled.  I  have  no  more 
to  say  but  this.  Tell  Charles  to  send  to  me  at 
ten  to-morrow.  I  cannot  see  him  yet.  If  he 
has  debts,  I  will  give  him  money  to  pay  them, 
provided  they  are  not  gaming  debts.  He 
shall  enter  on  his  new  duties,  freed  from  all 
embarrassments/  '• 

While  Curtis  spoke,  Charles  sat  at  the  table, 
with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands.  Curtis 
turned  to  Allen — «  Well,  Mr.  Brooke,  what  do 
you  say  ?  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"  Mr.  Clerrison  is  kinder  than  I  hoped  or  ex- 


168  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

pected,"  answered  Allen.  "When  I  consider 
how  his  hopes  have  been  blighted,  and  his 
authority  defied,  I  wonder  that  he  can  so  soon 
be  willing  to  do  so  much.  Whether  he  has  a 
right  to  insist  on  the  separation  of  husband  and 
wife,  I  cannot  take  upon  me  to  decide.  At 
any  rate,  he  has  a  right  to  the  obedience  of  his 
son,  and  to  require  some  pledge  for  his  future 
steadiness.  Had  he  taken  steps  to  annul  the 
marriage  immediately,  I  should  not  have  been 
surprised  ;  nor,  to  say  the  truth,  should  I  have 
been  sorry.  My  object,  Mr.  Curtis,  is  not  to 
force  concessions  from  Mr.  Clerrison,  nor  to  ob 
tain  any  aggrandizement  of  situation  for  my 
sister;  but  simply  to  do  my  duty  in  putting 
an  end  to  her  present  sufferings,  and  ascertain 
ing  her  real  position.  Her  situation  is  now 
dubious  and  miserable.  She  has  a  wife's  duties 
and  sorrows,  without  a  wife's  honours  or  pri 
vileges.  Say  for  me  to  Mr.  Clerrison,  that  I 
consider  him  to  have  acted  with  wonderful  for 
bearance  and  generosity.  That  I  thank  him 
for  his  offer  to  Louisa,  but  beg  leave  to  decline 


INFATUATION.  169 

it;  not  out  of  pride,  but  self-respect.  My 
sister  must  receive  no  pecuniary  favours  from 
Mr.  Clerrison,  unless  she  be  acknowledged  as 
his  son's  wife.  Until  then,  she  is  under  her 
brother's  care." 

Curtis  turned  to  Clerrison.  "  And  what 
have  you  to  say,  Charles,  to  your  father's 
offer  ?" 

Charles  slowly  took  his  hands  from  his  face, 
and  revealed  its  death-like  paleness,  as  he  fal- 
teringly  replied, 
•    "  That  I — cannot — accept  it." 

Curtis  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonish 
ment.  Brooke  sprang  forward  to  strike  Cler 
rison,  but  Curtis  threw  himself  between  them. 

"  A  moment's  patience !  Charles,  explain 
yourself  instantly.  I  will  not  be  trifled  with. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  you  will  not  accept  your 
father's  offer  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no ;  but  I  cannot.     I  dare  not. 

An  explanation  was  at  last  wrung  forth. 
It  appeared  that  about  two  years  before, 

Charles  being  then  eighteen,  he  had  become  in- 
15 


170  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

timate  with  a  knot  of  dissipated  young  men. 
and  contracted  a  passion  for  gaming.  He  had 
lost  large  sums,  far  beyond  his  ability  to  pay, 
though  his  allowance  was  a  most  liberal  one. 
He  was  betrayed  to  his  father  by  his  principal 
creditor,  who  calculated  shrewdly  on  Mr.  Cler- 
rison's  love  for  his  son,  and  the  dread  of  public 
disgrace  attaching  to  that  son's  name.  But  he 
had  not  calculated  all  the  results  of  his  daring 
game.  Mr.  Clerrison,  violent  when  excited, 
was  sternly  inflexible  when  resolved.  He  held 
gaming  and  gamesters  in  utter  abhorrence.  He 
paid  the  debt,  it  was  an  enormous  one,  ordered 
the  exulting  sharper  from  his  presence,  sent  for 
his  son,  told  him  what  he  had  done,  and  de 
manded  a  list  of  his  gaming  debts.  It  was 
given  ;  Charles  received  a  check  for  the  amount, 
and  then  heard  his  father  take  a  solemn  oath, 
never  to  forgive,  or  consider  him  as  a  son,  if 
ever  he  contracted  another  debt  of  like  nature. 
He  shuddered,  and  resolved  never  to  incur  the 
penalty.  For  the  next  eighteen  months  his 
passion  for  Louisa,  and  the  difficulties  which 


INFATUATION.  171 

opposed  it,  occupied  his  attention,  and  supplied 
the  excitement  he  had  learned  to  crave  at  the 
gaming-table.  But  his  love  was  merely  the 
desire  of  a  wilful  child  for  a  forbidden  toy. 
When  she  became  his  wife,  securely  his  own, 
her  virtues,  her  beauty,  even  her  innocent  and 
devoted  love,  soon  lost  their  influence  over  his 
weak  and  pampered  nature.  He  renewed 
(accidentally  at  first)  his  intercourse  with  his 
former  tempters.  Gradually  he  was  induced 
to  play,  soothing  his  conscience  with  the 
thought  that  he  would  not  exceed  his  allow 
ance,  and  therefore  need  not  incur  his  father's 
displeasure.  The  end  of  such  reasoning  and 
such  actions  may  be  briefly  told.  Clerrison 
had  gaming  debts  to  the  amount  of  three  thou 
sand  dollars. 

Curtis  and  Brooke  looked  at  each  other 
in  consternation.  "  Oh !  my  poor  Louisa," 
groaned  the  brother.  Charles,  conscience- 
stricken,  ashamed,  and  despairing,  sat  silent. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  asked  Curtis,  after  a 
melancholy  pause.  "  It  is  a  large  sum ; — still, 


172  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

Mr.  Clerrison  could  easily  afford  to  advance 
it." 

« It  is  not  that,"  muttered  Charles.  "  It  is 
not  the  money  ;  it  is  his  oath, — he  will  never 
break  it.  If  he  hears  of  this,  I  am  a  lost 
man." 

Again  the  friends  looked  despondingly  at 
each  other.  "  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  repeated 
Curtis.  "I  would  gladly  lay  down  the  cash 
myself,  but  my  means  are  slender.  To  be 
frank,  my  father  spares  me  all  he  can,  and  I 
am  just  able  to  pay  my  way,  and  no  more. 
Have  you  no  moneyed  friend  you  can  call  on, 
Clerrison  ?" 

Clerrison  shook  his  head. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?"  said  Curtis,  appeal 
ing  to  Brooke.  Brooke  was  silent  for  a  little 
time,  and  then  he  said,  "  So  far  as  I  can  see, 
there  is  but  one  thing  to  be  done.  There  is 
one  person  who  can  assist  Charles." 

"  And  who  is  that  ?"  inquired  Curtis,  eagerly. 
Charles  looked  up  in  amazement. 

"Myself.    The  money  I  have  saved  and 


INFATUATION.  173 

made  within  the  last  five  years,  with  poor 
Louisa's  earnings,  is  rather  more  than  three 
thousand  dollars.  With  that  sum  I  meant  to 
begin  business  at  St.  Louis.  I  was,  as  I  told 
you,  offered  a  partnership  on  very  favourable 
terms.  I  am  willing  to  give  it  up.  It  is  evi 
dent  that  the  scoundrels  who  have  entangled 
Charles  would  keep  silence  for  their  own  sakes, 
and  allow  him  to  remain  their  debtor,  so  long 
as  they  had  hopes  of  payment  from  his  father's 
purse.  Those  hopes  failing,  they  would  show 
him  no  mercy;  every  thing  now  depends  on 
keeping  the  matter  from  Mr.  Clerrison's  know 
ledge.  That  can  be  done  only  by  satisfying 
their  claims  at  once,  dishonest  as  they  may  be. 
1  will  pay  these  debts.  I  can  get  my  old  clerk 
ship  again ;  and  if  three  thousand  dollars  will 
save  my  sister's  husband  from  a  father's  curse, 
I  shall  think  the  money  well  spent." 

His  voice   faltered.     It  was — it  must  have 
been,  a  bitter  moment  in  which  he  sacrificed 
his  honest  hope  of  independence ;  but  his  pur 
pose  wavered  not.     Curtis  wrung  his  hands  in 
15* 


174  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

silent  sympathy.     Charles  hid  his  face  again, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Here  is  the  money,"  continued  Brooke, 
taking  out  his  pocket-book ;  "  settle  these  dis 
graceful  debts  to-night,  if  you  can,  Charles. 
Let  Mr.  Curtis  carry  your  acknowledgments 
and  acceptance  to  your  father  to-morrow,  and 
then  come  and  bid  your  wife  farewell.  This 
indulgence  he  will  not  deny  you,  and  she  has  a 
right  to  it." 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  not,"  said  Curtis ;  "  and 
I  am  sure,  too,  that  if  Charles  behaves  well, 
his  father  will  abridge  the  time  of  probation." 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to-night,  Brooke,"  ex 
claimed  Charles.' 

"  No ;  you  do  not  enter  my  house  without 
your  father's  permission  ;  besides,  Louisa  is 
not  able  to  receive  you.  When  I  left  you  at 
six  o'clock,  I  went  home,  and  found  her  so' 
ill  that  I  sent  for  a  physician.  He  gave  her 
an  opiate,  and  ordered  her  to  be  kept  perfectly 
quiet.  I  left  her  asleep,  and  she  must  not  be 
disturbed." 


INFATUATION.  175 

Cutting  short  the  incoherent  thanks  and  pro 
mises  of  Charles,  Curtis  and  Brooke  went  away 
together.  They  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes 
before  Selby  made  his  appearance.  He  listened 
to  Charles'  rapturous  account  of  his  brother-in- 
law's  generosity,  echoing  his  praises,  applauding 
Charles7  resolutions  of  reform,  and  expatiating 
on  the  delights  of  domestic  life.  Then  he  rang 
for  Champagne,  and  proposed  a  bumper  to 
Allen's  health.  Charles  drank;  the  glasses 
were  refilled,  and  he  drank  again.  Selby 
turned  the  conversation  on  Charles'  debts,  and 
artfully  brought  to  mind  that  he  had  an  unset 
tled  claim.  It  was  paid.  More  wine  was 
pressed  on  Charles,  but  he  proposed  to  go  in 
search  of  his  creditors.  Harrington  was  one 
of  them.  Selby  expected  him  every  moment ; 
they  would  all  go  together.  Meanwhile,  another 
glass  of  wine ;  and,  just  for  pastime,  they 
would  take  a  hit  at  backgammon,  till  Harring 
ton  came. 

He  came — they  loitered — the  victim  was 
plied  with  wine — Selby  and  Harrington  began 


176  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

to  bet  with  each  other — Charles  was  allowed 
to  be  a  looker-on  until  his  interest  became  ex 
cited.  Seiby  produced  the  money  Charles  had 
paid  him.  It  was  suggested  that  he  might  win 
it  back — that  he  might  win  enough  to  pay  his 
debts  and  restore  Allen's  money 

Will  it  be  believed  ? — No  ;  those  who  do 
not  know  the  sorcery  of  the  gaming-table  never 
can  believe,  that  at  five  in  the  morning,  Charles 
Clerrison  had  lost  the  last  dollar  of  Brooke's 
three  thousand. 

He  paid  over  the  money  with  seeming  in 
difference,  and,  when  Harrington  departed, 
said  in  a  quiet  tone,  to  Selby,  "  With  your 
leave,  Selby,  I'll  just  throw  myself  on  the  sofa, 
and  take  a  nap." 

Selby  was,  as  usual,  profuse  in  his  offers  of 
accommodation,  pressing  Charles  to  occupy  his 
bed ;  but  Charles  rather  sternly  intimated  that 
he  chose  to  lie  on  the  sofa,  and  wished  to  be 
left  alone. 

When  Selby  had  withdrawn,  Charles  threw 
off  his  assumed  calmness,  and,  groaning  in 


INFATUATION.  177 

agony,  walked  distractedly  about  the  parlour. 
"  For  this,"  he  said,  « did  Allen  beggar  him 
self — for  this  did  my  father  forgive  me — for 
this  did  Louisa  love  and  trust  me.  Oh !  vil 
lains  ;  but  no ;  it  is  I ; — madman  !  fool !  beast 
that  I  am.  Oh  !  Louisa,  what  have  I  done  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  dishonoured  head? 
The  very  refuse  of  the  world  will  spurn  me. 
Allen  Brooke,  how  can  I  meet  you  ?  I  cannot 
— I  cannot — any  thing  rather  than  that." 

Selby's  pistol-case  lay  on  a  side-table.  It 
was  open,  and  the  weapons  caught  Charles' 
eye.  «  Ha !  well  thought  of."  He  took  up  one 
of  the  pistols;  it  was  loaded.  "Allen,  you 
shall  not  look  reproach  upon  me  till  I  am  care 
less  of  your  looks.  Louisa!"  He  staggered 
to  the  chimney,  and  gazed  at  himself  in  the 
mirror  which  hung  over  it.  "I  look  like  a 
bridegroom,  don't  I  ?  A  merry  bridegroom — 
and  a  blessed  bridal  I  have  made  for  you, 
Louisa.  Poor  girl,  poor  girl.  Well,  she  will 
forgive  me ;  they  will  all  forgive  me  then." 


178  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

He  put  the  pistol  to  his  head,  fired,  and  fell, 

mortally  wounded. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Those  who  pass  by  the Lunatic  Hos 
pital,  often  overhear  the  wailing  screams  of  a 
female  maniac,  to  whose  imagination  is  ever 
present  the  bloody  and  disfigured  body  of  her 
self-murdered  husband.  That  maniac  is  Louisa 
Brooke. 


CHANGES  OF  SCENE. 


Swift  o'er  Memory's  magic  glass, 

Now  the  changing  shadows  pass. — M.  S.  POEM. 


POOR  Mrs.  Brown's  horror  and  distress  at 
the  terrible  catastrophe  which  had  taken  place 
in  her  house,  threw  her  into  a  nervous  fever, 
and  when  she  recovered,  she  declared  that  she 
would  never  let  the  best  rooms  to  a  single  gen 
tleman  again.  The  furniture,  (some  articles 
of  which  bore  sanguinary  tokens  of  Clerrison's 
fearful  death,)  was  changed ,  and  as  my  beauty 
began  to  fade,  and  I  was  not  valuable  enough 
to  be  sold,  I  was  given  to  one  of  the  children, 
who  soon  wearied  of  playing  with  me,  and  the 
chamber-maid  placed  me  on  the  mantelpiece 
in  one  of  the  third  story  rooms. 

Many  strange  pages  in  the  book  of  human 

life  were  opened  to  me  there.  -  The  first  occu- 

179 


180  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

pants  of  the  chamber  were  a  married  couple. 
The  wife  was  a  little,  timid,  broken-spirited 
creature  ;  the  husband  was  the  best  of  husbands 
in  company,  and  a  sullen  tyrant  in  private. 
To  them  succeeded  a  student  of  medicine, 
whose  poor  parents  had  half-starved  them 
selves,  that  he  might  attend  the  lectures,  and 
keep  up  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman.  He  went 
on  very 'soberly  for  a  short  time,  then  plunged 
into  dissipation,  neglected  his  studies,  expended 
in  six  weeks  the  sum  that  should  have  sup 
ported  him  for  six  months,  and  finally  disap 
peared,  as  Mrs.  Brown  said,  "between  two 
days,"  leaving  an  empty  trunk  and  half  a  dozen 
ill-used  medical  books  in  payment  for  his  board- 
Then  came  a  young  wife,  whose  husband 
was  at  sea.  They  were  in  narrow  circum 
stances,  and  she  prudently  resolved  not  to  in 
cur  the  expenses  of  housekeeping  in  her  hus 
band's  absence.  So  she  and  her  pretty  baby 
came  to  board  with  Mrs.  Brown.  She  often 
sang  it  to  sleep,  and  among  her  simple  lays 
the  following  seemed  her  favourite  : — 


CHANGES    OF    SCENE.  181 

All  day  thy  far  wanderings  in  thought  to  pursue, 
All  night  my  lone  pillow  with  tears  to  bedew, 

To  welcome,  for  thy  sake,  the  lowliest  lot ; 
To  gaze  on  our  babe,  thy  resemblance  to  see, 
And  love  him  the  better  for  looking  like  thee, 

If  this  be  forgetting  thee,  thou  art  forgot 

To  toil  on  contented,  though  lone  and  obscure, 
And,  assur'd  of  thy  love,  to  forget  we  are  poor, 

In  the  wealth  of  delight  from  that  certainty  caught; 
Though  a  year  since  our  parting  has  lingered  away, 
To  feel  it,  as  though  thou  hadst  left  me  to-day 

If  this  be  forgetting  thee,  thou  art  forgot. 

Mrs.  Ellis  was  a  Christian  mother,  and  she 
began  early  to  train  up  her  child  in  the  way  it 
should  go.  Next  to  her  Bible,  Abbott's  Mo 
ther  at  Home  was  her  chief  study.  She  sel 
dom  left  her  chamber  except  at  meal  times, 
and  when  her  child  was  laid  to  sleep  on  his 
little  pillow,  how  fervent  were  her  prayers,  as 
she  knelt  beside  him,  for  his  father's  safety — 
not  from  danger  only,  but  from  sin.  He  came 
at  last,  and  never  did  a  happier  pair  offer 
thanks  for  perils  passed  and  mercies  granted, 
than  krijelt  beside  each  other  then ;  the  hus 
band's  manly  voice  faltering  with  emotion,  and 
the  sweet  face  of  his  wife  deulged  with  joyful 

tears. 

16 


182  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

"  Ruthless  Time,  who  waits  for  no  man," 
wended  on  at  his  accustomed  pace ;  and  seven 
years  had  gone  over  me  in  that  third  story 
room,  when  Mrs.  Brown  broke  up  housekeep 
ing.  Her  eldest  son  was  established  in  busi 
ness,  her  younger  was  apprenticed  to  his  bro 
ther,  and  both  her  daughters  well  married. 
The  affectionate  children  paid  back,  with  hearty 
good  will,  the  debt  of  love  and  care  they  owed 
their  mother;  and,  in  compliance  with  their 
repeated  entreaties,  she  agreed  to  give  up  busi 
ness,  and  reside  with  each  of  them  in  turn. 
Her  furniture  was  accordingly  disposed  of,  and 
during  the  process  of  arrangement  for  sale,  I 
was  gathered  up  with  certain  other  antiquated 
trifles,  and  thrown  into  a  large  old  trunk,  which 
had  stood,  time  out  of  mind,  in  the  back  gar 
ret.  Here  I  found  myself  in  company  with 
rolls  of  patches,  bundles  of  dried  herbs,  files 
of  old  newspapers,  the  London  Magazine  for 
1770,  three  old  song  books,  a  mutilated  Eng 
lish  Reader,  some  torn  spelling  books,  sundry 
fragments  of  slates,  and  several  smeared  copy- 


CHANGES    OF    SCENE.  183 

books.  To  these  were  now  added  an  old  fili 
gree  basket,  a  crushed  pasteboard  flower-stand, 
a  pair  of  tarnished  card-racks,  a  few  soiled 
pencil  drawings,  and  myself.  The  trunk  was 
put  into  a  lot  with  three  crazy  chairs  and  a  very 
infirm  bedstead,  bought  by  a  broker  and  dealer 
in  second-hand  furniture,  and  by  him  placed 
in  his  shop. 

"  The  world  is  a  comedy  to  those  who  think, 
a  tragedy  to  those  who  feel."  This  saying 
might  well  be  applied  to  Mr.  Farrell's  shop. 
What  an  incongruous  medly  did  it  contain  ! 
What  tales  of  household  wreck,  of  sorrow, 
poverty,  pain,  and  death  did  it  suggest.  Here 
stood  a  scrap-table,  the  toy,  perhaps,  of  happy 
leisure ;  its  making,  no  doubt,  had  cost  weeks 
of  time  and  dollars  of  expense;  there  lay  a 
string  of  rusty  keys.  Here  was  a  carved  ma 
hogany  bureau,  black  with  age ;  there,  an  oil- 
painting  fresh  from  the  easel.  Here,  a  chaff 
bed,  stained  and  torn ;  there,  a  pair  of  elegant 
glass  shades.  Here,  a  pine  table  worth  fifty 
cents ;  there,  a  sideboard  worth  four  times  as 


184  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

many  dollars.     On  those  hooks  hung  a  costly 
rifle ;  in  this  case  glittered  a  lady's  watch. 

The  trunk  in  which  I  lay  was  placed  near 
the  door,  and  remained  there  unnoticed  for  two 
or  three  days,  until  one  of  Mrs.  Farrell's  children, 
who  occasionally  threaded  the  labyrinths  of  the 
shop,  chose  to  open  it.  She  was  busily  exam 
ining  its  contents,  when  the  pleasing  occupation 
was  suspended  by  the  slight  tap  of  a  parasol 
applied  to  the  back  of  the  searcher,  while  a 
voice  of  surpassing  sweetness  inquired,  "  My 
dear,  does  Mrs.  Farrell  live  here  ?" 

The  child  scrampled  up,  and  stood  gazing  in 
awkward,  open-mouthed  wonder  at  the  speaker, 
who  smilingly  repeated  her  inquiry.  The  child 
turned  round  and  rushed  into  the  interior  of  the 
establishment,  shouting  as  she  ran,  "  Mother ! 
mother  !  here's  a  woman  wants  to  know  if  you 
live  here." 

The  lady  was  young  and  beautiful,  tall,  of 
noble  figure  and  dignified  carriage.  Her  dress 
was  a  gray  silk,  with  a  plain  lace  collar,  and 
the  dark  curls  which  clustered  round  her  bloom- 


CHANGES    OP    SCENE.  185 

ing  face  were  shaded  by  a  straw  bonnet,  tied 
down  with  white  satin  riband.  Her  eyes  wan 
dered  round  the  shop,  and  fell  at  last  on  the 
open  trunk.  She  stooped,  and  extended  her 
hand  to  the  magazine ;  suddenly  she  paused, 
lifted  me  up,  and  surveyed  me  attentively. 
Mrs.  Farrell  was  at  her  side,  with  the  staring 
child  clinging  to  her  gown,  and  had  twice  re 
peated  her  question  of,  "  What  did  you  please 
to  want,  ma'am?"  before  the  lady  was  con 
scious  of  her  presence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  she  said, 
starting  from  her  reverie.  "  Pray  is  this  screen 
for  sale  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Farrell  replied  that  it  was.  The  lady 
took  out  her  purse,  paid  the  trifling  sum  de 
manded  for  me,  and  then  said,  "  May  1  ask, 
madam,  if  you  know  where  it  came  from  ?" 

Mrs.  Farrell  replied,  that  her  husband  had 
bought  it  with  a  lot  of  old  things,  of  a  Mrs. 
Brown,  who  kept  a  boarding-house  in  Spruce 
Street. 

« I  was  sure  of  of  it,"  said  the  lady,  a  bright 
16* 


186  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

smile  dimpling  round  her  mouth ;  "  I  was  sure 
it  was  my  old  acquaintance."  She  wrapped 
me  carefully  in  her  handkerchief,  and  referring 
to  a  paper  she  held  in  her  hand,  asked  if  Mrs. 
Farrell  could  tell  her  where  to  find  Mrs.  Nancy 
Ryan. 

ft  She  has  a  room  here,  ma'am  ;  they  moved 
last  week  ; — please  to  walk  this  way — up  them 
stairs,  ma'am ;  turn  to  the  right,  and  knock  at 
the  first  door ;  take  care,  ma'm,  that  paint's 
wet."  The  lady  thanked  her  courteously,  and 
groped  her  way  up  the  dark  and  crooked 
stairs. 

"  Come  in,"  was  the  invitation  accorded  to 
her  gentle  tap.  The  lady  opened  the  door,  and 
involuntarily  shrunk  back  from  the  close  and 
offensive  atmosphere  that  filled  the  room. 
The  day  was  warm,  yet  the  window  was  shut, 
and  a  haggard  woman,  the  sole  occupant  of 
the  room,  her  eyes  glazed,  and  cheeks  flushed 
with  fever,  lay  panting  for  breath  under  a  huge 
heap  of  bed-clothes. 

The  lady  sprang  to  the  window,  threw  it  up 


CHANGES    OF    SCENE.  187 

as  high  as  it  would  go,  turned  to  the  bed,  and 
flung  back  part  of  the  heavy  covering ;  then, 
addressing  the  invalid,  she  said,  "  I  had  some 
difficulty  in  finding  you,  Mrs.  Ryan,  or  I  should 
have  been  here  before.  You  are  quite  sick." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  honey.  I  am  a  great  deal  worse 
since  morning." 

The  lady  drew  off  her  glove,  applied  her 
fingers  to  the  woman's  pulse,  arid  said,  "  You 
want  bleeding  immediately,  Mrs.  Ryan.  You 
have  no  objection  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no,  honey,  if  you'll  be  by  me." 

The  lady  called  Mrs.  Farrell,  and  requested 
her  to  let  one  of  her  children  go  for  a  bleeder. 
Mrs.  Farrell  readily  assented,  and  the  lady,  en 
couraged  by  her  civility,  ventured  to  petition 
for  a  pail  of  hot  water.  It  was  brought,  and 
Mrs.  Farrell  offered  her  farther  assistance,  for 
which  she  was  warmly  thanked  by  the  lady. 
Between  them,  the  sick  woman  was  lifted  up, 
and  placed  in  an  arm-chair  which  Mrs.  Farrell 
kindly  brought  from  the  shop. 

"  Oh !   how  much  good  it  does  me,"  said 


188  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

Mrs.  Ryan,  when  her  feet  had  been  for  a  few 
minutes  in  the  hot  water.     "  I  feel  better  al 
ready."     "  You  will  feel  better  still,"  said  the 
lady,  "  when  I   have   bathed  your   face   and 
hands,  and  combed  your  hair,  and  put  on  your 
cap  snugly ;  and  while  I  do  that,  perhaps,  Mrs. 
Farrell,  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  make  up 
Mrs.  Ryan's  bed  with  clean  sheets,  and  she 
will  feel  so  comfortable."     Mrs.  Farrell,  hav 
ing  screamed  to  "  Sally"  to  "  mind  the  door," 
began  with  alacrity  to  make  the  bed ;  but  Mrs. 
Ryan  had  no  clean  sheets.     Stimulated,  how 
ever,  by  the  presence  and  example  of  the  fair 
stranger,  Mrs.  Farrell  offered  to  lend  a  pair  of 
sheets  and  a  pillow-case.     Mean  time,  the  lady 
took  out  of  her  little  basket  an  apron,  which 
she  tied  on,  turned  up  her  sleeves,  and  tenderly 
bathed  the  fevered  face  and  hands  of  the  pa 
tient,  combed  out  her  tangled  hair,  replaced 
her  cap,  dried  her  feet,  and,  assisted  by  Mrs. 
Farrell,  had  her  settled  in  her  clean,  cool,  com 
fortably  made  bed,  before  the  bleeder  arrived. 
The  abstraction  of  blood  seemed  to  give  Mrs. 


CHANGES    OP    SCENE.  189 

Ryan's  laboured  breathing  immediate  relief; 
the  lady  then  opened  her  basket  again,  took 
out  some  medicine,  which  she  mixed  and  ad 
ministered  ;  and  having,  with  quiet  dexterity, 
set  the  littered  room  in  something  like  order, 
she  sat  down  by  the  bed-side,  and  recommended 
her  patient  to  try  to  sleep. 

"  I  can't  sleep,  honey.  Pd  rather  look  at 
you.  It  does  me  good  to  see  you  once  more," 
replied  Mrs.  Ryan. 

The  lady  smiled.  "  I  must  leave  you  soon, 
Mrs.  Ryan,  but  I  shall  come  again  to-morrow 
morning;  you  want  nothing  at  present  but 
sleep.  Tell  your  husband  to  give  you  a  little 
warm  tea  now  and  then,  nothing  else  till  I  see 
you.  You  would  like  me  to  read  a  little  to 
you,  before  I  go  ?" 

"  Oh !  yes,  honey ;  bless  you,  that  I  should." 

The  lady  reached  an  old  Bible  that  lay  on 
the  table,  read  a  chapter,  and  then,  kneeling 
beside  the  bed,  she  prayed  in  simple,  yet  ener 
getic  language,  while  tears,  sweet,  soothing 
tears,  flowed  down  the  sick  woman's  cheeks. 


190  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

Having  concluded  her  pious  office,  the  lady 
bade  her  patient  a  kind  farewell,  and  departed: 
stopping,  as  she  passed  through  the  shop,  to 
repeat  her  thanks  for  Mrs.  Farrell's  assistance  ; 
Mrs.  Farrell  volunteering  a  promise  "  to  step 
up  as  often  as  she  could,  and  see  after  the  poor 
soul  a  little."  People  are  often  incited  to  do 
kind  actions  by  seeing  it  supposed  that  they  are 
willing  to  do  them. 

My  new  owner  paid  several  visits  of  a  simi 
lar  description,  distributing  money,  advice,  and 
sympathy,  as  they  were  needed ;  and  the  sun 
was  setting  when  she  ascended  the  steps  of  an 
elegant  mansion  in  Chesnut  street. 


THE   MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE. 


Shall  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on  high  ; 

Shall  we  to  men  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? — HEBER. 


"  MY  love,"  exclaimed  a  young  gentleman, 
as  he  advanced  to  meet  the  lady  ;  "  my  own 
Joanna,  where  have  you  been?" 

'f  Dear  Edmund,  have  I  kept  you  waiting? 
I  thought  I  should  have  been  at  home  two 
hours  ago,  but  Mrs.  Ryan  had  moved,  and  I 
had  some  difficulty  in  finding  her.  And  I  had 
other  calls  to  make,  which  could  not  be  deferred 
without  infringing  on  our  duties  for  to-morrow. 
But  you  look  tired,  and  sad  too,  my  Edmund  ?" 
she  continued,  and,  throwing  me  on  the  table, 
she  took  her  companion's  hand,  and  looked 

anxiously  in  his  face.     He  had  seated  himself 

191 


192  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

again,  and  as  she  stood  beside  him,  he  drew 
her  to  him,  and  leaned  his  head  on  her  arm. 
"  I  am  tired,  and  a  little  sad  too.  I  have  had  a 
toilsome  walk,  and  a  very  painful  visit ;  but  I 
shall  be  better  now." 

"  I  will  ask  cousin  Susan  to  order  tea  up  im 
mediately,"  said  the  lady,  gently  withdrawing 
from  his  embrace.  "  Tea  will  revive  you,  I 
know.  I  will  take  off  my  bonnet,  and  come 
back  to  you  in  a  moment ;"  and  she  turned  to 
leave  the  room. 

"  Joanna,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  Well  ?"  replied  the  lady,  pausing,  with  her 
hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door. 

"  Dearest,"  resumed  the  gentleman,  and  he 
hesitated,  as  if  he  spoke  reluctantly ;  "  what  is 
your  opinion  now  about  Watson's  affair  ?" 

"  Exactly  what  it  was  yesterday." 

«  Then  you  will  not  do  any  thing  ?" 

«  What  you  wished  is  done." 

«  Done  !  when  ?" 

« This  afternoon,  before  I  went  to  Mrs. 
Ryan's." 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE.  193 

«  My  dear,  kind  wife  !  But  you  have  done 
this  against  your  own  judgment." 

"  You  know  our  agreement,  Edmund,  that 
when  our  opinions  differed,  and  reasons  ap 
peared  nearly  equal  on  both  sides,  you  should 
have  the  casting  vote.  I  had  rather  trust  your 
judgment  than  my  own.  You  know,  aunt 
Lorimer  used  to  say  you  had  the  best  balanced 
mind  in  the  world." 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  my  dear  girl. 
You  have  acted  in  direct  opposition  to  your 
own  will.  I " 

"What's  the  use,"  interrupted  Joanna,  play 
fully,  still  resting  one  hand  on  the  door-knob, 
while  she  extended  the  other  gracefully  to 
wards  her  husband ;  "  what's  the  use  of  hav 
ing  that  important  possession,  a  will  of  one's 
own,  if  we  cannot  give  it  up  to  oblige  those 
we  love  ?" 

So  saying,  she  opened  the  door  and  tripped 
away. 

This  little  scene  took  place  in  the  front  par 
lour.  A  gentleman  who  sat  reading  in  the 
17 


194  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

adjoining  room  had  been  unnoticed  by  the 
young  pair,  being  concealed  from  view  by  the 
half-closed  folding  door;  he  now  came  for 
ward,  laughing. 

"How  in  the  world,  Field,"  said  he,  "did 
you  contrive  to  convert  our  vixen  cousin  into 
such  a  gentle  wife  ?" 

"  She  never  was  a  vixen,  I  think,"  answered 
Edmund,  smiling,  for  he  understood  the  good- 
humoured  raillery  of  the  speaker ;  "  but  she 
was  converted  into  a  gentle  Christian  before 
she  became  my  wife ;  and  the  best  of  wives 
she  is,"  he  contined,  as  the  subject  of  his  eulogy 
re-entered. 

"  Excepting  me,  Mr.  Field,"  said  a  lady  who 
followed  Joanna  into  the  parlour. 

"  Your  claims  to  that  title  are  so  well  esta 
blished  that  we  think  it  needless  to  mention 
them,"  was  the  smiling  reply,  as  the  happy 
group  surrounded  the  tea-table. 

When  "  the  lady-like  duties  of  the  tea-table" 
were  ended,  and  the  little  party  seated  again 
in  the  front  parlour,  Joanna  said,  «  Did  any  of 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE.  195 

you  ever  see  this  before  ?"  and  she  held  me  up 
t6  view.  Mr.  Field  had  forgotten  me,  but 
Mrs.  Andrews,  after  a  minute  inspection,  ex 
claimed,  "  I  do  believe,  Joanna,  that  this  is  the 
screen  that  stood  on  the  mantelpiece  in  the 
parlour,  when  grandmamma  and  I  boarded  at 
Mrs.  Brown's." 

"  It  is ;  there  are  my  initials,  which  you 
reproved  me  for  scratching  on  the  handle.  I 
found  it  to-day  in  a  second-hand  furniture 
shop." 

"A  very  valuable  relic,  indeed,"  said  Mr. 
Andrews,  turning  me  round,  and  eyeing  me  in 
rather  a  disrespectful  manner,  "  and  cost  you  a 
goodly  sum,  no  doubt." 

"  More  than  you  would  think  it  worth,  of 
course,"  replied  Joanna,  good-humouredly ; 
"  but  I  would  willingly  have  paid  twice  as 
much  for  a  token  which  reminds  me  so  plea 
santly  of '  lang  syne.'  " 

"Dear  grandmamma!"  said  Mrs.  Andrews, 
as  she  musingly  surveyed  my  faded  surface. 

«  Yes,"  said  Joanna,  «  don't  you  remember, 


196  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

Susan,  exactly  how  she  looked  as  she  used  to 
sit  in  her  easy  chair,  using  this  screen  to  defend 
her  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  coal  fire  ?  I  have 
often  watched  her  as  she  sat  in  the  large  crim 
son-cushioned  chair,  wrapped  in  the  rich-looking 
dark  shawl  she  was  so  fond  of,  with  her  silver 
hair  parted  on  her  serene  fore-head,  under  her 
cap  of  snow-white  lace ;  her  hand,  still  fair  and 
delicate,  holding  up  this  screen ;  and  some-times 
little  Ellen  Morris  on  the  footstool  at  her  feet, 
in  her  white  frock,  with  her  long  flaxen  curls 
hanging  over  her  neck,  her  arm  on  aunt  Lori- 
mer's  knee,  and  her  round,  rosy  face  lifted  up 
so  smilingly — and  the  fire  casting  a  ruddy  glow 
upon  the  group.  I  have  longed  to  be  a  painter, 
then." 

"Quite  a  poetical  description.  You  paint  in 
words,  Joanna,"  observed  Mr.  Andrews. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  cousin,"  said  Joanna,  apo 
logetically.  "  I  only  describe  things  as  I  see 
them." 

"  Your  eyes  must  be  Claude  Lorraine  glasses 
then  j  but  you  tell  me 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE.  197 

'  Nothing  is  lost  upon  him  who  sees 

With  an  eye  that  feeling  gave; 
To  him  there's  a  story  in  every  breeze, 

And  a  picture  in  every  wave,'  " 

quoted  Mr.  Andrews. 

"True,  cousin,  true,"  replied  Joanna,  ear 
nestly,  "and  though  you  quote  those  charming 
lines  in  jest,  I  feel  them  in  earnest.  Often  do  I 
thank  God  for  giving  me  those  perceptions, 
which  enable  me,  in  the  language  of  one  who 
must  have  partaken  the  blessing,  '  to  look  at  a 
blank  wall,  and  fancy  I  gaze  on  Paradise.' 
You  pity  the  deaf  and  dumb  ;  how  much  more 
are  they  to  be  pitied  whose  mental  visions  can 
form  no  picture  when  it  looks  upon  the  elements 
of  beauty ;  whose  mental  hearing  is  deaf  to 
poetry,  which  is  the  music  of  thought." 

Mr.  Andrews  looked  admiringly  at  the  beau 
tiful  creature  before  him,  as  her  animated  fea 
tures  expressed  what  she  felt. 

"  What  a  being  to  bury  in  a  western  wilder 
ness  !  Field,  can  you  really  intend  that  all 
these  charms  and  talents  are  to  be  dimmed  in 


17* 


198  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

the  smoke  of  an  Indian  wigwam,  for  the  re 
mainder  of  your  natural  lives  ?" 

She  has  chosen,"  said  Edmund,  calmly. 

"  Cousin,"  resumed  Joanna,  blushing  deeply, 
while  tears  started  into  her  eyes — "  do  not  talk 
so.  I  know  your  compliments,  as  well  as  your 
teazings,  are  more  than  half  ironical ;  still  they 
make  me  uncomfortable.  If  I  possessed  all  the 
qualities  you  are  pleased  to  ascribe  to  me,  from 
whom  did  I  receive,  and  to  whom  should  I  de 
vote  them  ?  I  am  aware  that  the  duties  I  shall 
hereafter  undertake,  and  the  influence  I  may 
be  called  on  to  exert,  must  be  of  a  kind  in 
which  talents  and  accomplishments  (as  those 
words  are  generally  understood)  will  not  be 
needed.  But  I  desire  to  consecrate  all  I  am, 
and  all  I  may  be,  to  my  Saviour's  service. 
And  so  long  as  I  can  cultivate  refinement  of 
thought  and  manner,  without  neglecting  'the 
weightier  matters  of  the  law,'  so  long  will  I 
continue  to  bring  my  little  offering  of  '  anise, 
and  mint,  and  cummin.'  I  may  be  wrong," 
she  continued,  the  poetry  of  her  nature  flashing 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE.  199 

forth  in  spite  of  herself,  «  but  those  who  banish 
from  their  minds  and  manners  when  they  enter 
the  service  of  God,  all  the  graces  they  so  sedu 
lously  cultivated  for  the  world,  appear  to  me 
like  those  who  keep  back  the  choice  of  the 
flock,  and  offer  the  blind,  the  halt,  and  the 
maimed  on  the  altar  of  the  Most  High.  Ex 
cuse  me  if  I  have  spoken  too  strongly." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  for  Mr.  Andrews 
(who,  though  a  good  and  intelligent  man,  was 
incapable  of  estimating  the  lofty  enthusiasm  of 
Joanna)  felt  somewnat  embarrassed.  Mrs. 
Andrews,  with  her  usual  good-natured  tact, 
broke  the  awkward  pause  by  recurring  to  me  j 
and  Joanna  gave  the  little  history  of  my  rescue. 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  your 
treasure  ?" 

"Keep  it,  Susan.  I  shall  keep  it  always. 
To  me  it  brings  back  many  sweet  memories. 
I  shall  prize  it  for  her  sake  who  is  now  a 
saint  in  heaven.  How  many  lessons  of  holy 
wisdom  I  received  from  aunt  Lorimer  in  that 
parlour  at  Mrs.  Brown's  !  How  many  lessons 


200  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

of  practical  usefulness   I   got  from  you,  dear 
Susan  !" 

"They  were  unconsciously  given,  I  am 
sure,"  observed  the  modest  Susan. 

"  And  not  always  willingly  received,  for  I  was 
a  wayward  girl  in  those  days ;  however,  they 
bore  their  fruit  in  due  season.  There,  too,  I  first 
saw  you,  Edmund  ;  and  there — "  she  stopped, 
and  looked  affectionately  at  her  husband. 

"  And  there  you  first  fell  in  love  !"  said  Mr 
Andrews. 

"  No,  indeed,  that  was  not  until  a  long  time 
after,"  replied  Joanna,  innocently.  "  What  I 
was  going  to  say,  was,  that  there  I  received 
my  first  impressions  of  the  importance  of  reli 
gion.  Edmund  went  to  college  a  few  months 
after  we  first  met,  and  I  saw  nothing  of  him 
for  five  years.  There  was  very  little  love  be 
tween  us  then.  I  rather  feared  him,  for  he  told 
me  of  my  faults  more  plainly  than  I  had  ever 
been  told  before." 

"And  you  bore  the  telling  well,  dear  Jo 
anna,"  said  Edmund. 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE.  201 

" '  And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride' 

an  original  style  of  wooing,  truly,"  said  Mr. 
Andrews. 

"  It  came  to  good  speed,  nevertheless,"  re 
torted  Edmund. 


LETTER  FROM  JOANNA  TO  A  FRIEND. 

Philadelphia,  May  16,  18—. 

MY  DEAR  MARIANNE  : — Your  letter,  filled 
with  wonders  and  queries,  reached  me  only 
yesterday.  The  change  of  our  proposed  route 
accounts  for  your  not  having  received  any  let 
ters  from  me  since  that  in  which  I  announced 
my  intended  marriage. 

I  have  been  married  three  months.  Edmund 
and  I  are  now  the  guests  of  my  cousin  Susan. 
As  Edmund  cannot  enter  the  ministry  until 
next  spring,  we  shall  spend  the  intervening 
time  in 'Philadelphia,  preparing  ourselves,  as 


202  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

far  as  we  are  able,  for  the  sacred  duties  we  are 
about  to  undertake. 

You  are  aware,  my  dear  friend,  that  from 
Edmund's  earliest  youth,  ,it  has  been  his  wish 
and  prayer  that  he  might  serve  God  as  a  mis 
sionary.  I  united  my  fate  with  his,  under 
standing  and  consenting,  that  his  life  was  to 
be  devoted  to  missionary  labours.  I  did  not 
take  this  step  hastily  or  unadvisedly.  Per 
haps,  had  I  been  left  to  my  own  choice,  I 
might  have  preferred  a  settlement  in  a  place 
where  his  highly  cultivated  mind  and  elegant 
manners  might  be  appreciated ;  but  when  I  ac 
cepted  his  hand,  I  felt  that  even  without  a 
higher  motive,  his  affection  would  repay  me 
for  all  I  should  resign  to  become  his  companion 
in  the  wilderness.  At  first  he  thought  of  go 
ing  to  Asia ;  but  on  balancing  the  reasons  for 
and  against  this  choice,  we  arrived  at  the  con 
clusion  that  the  scale  of  duty  preponderated  in 
favour  of  our  own  country,  and  that  our  op 
portunities  of  doing  good  might  (humanly 
speaking)  be  greater  and  of  longer  duration. 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE.  203 

The  Indians  of  America,  those  poor  re 
mains  of  savage  greatness,  have  always  ap 
peared  to  my  mind  a  deeply  wronged  people. 
Stripped  of  their  wild  dignity,  degraded  from 
their  savage  chivalry,  robbed  of  their  birth 
right,  denied  as  they  touchingly  say,  even  "  a 
resting  place  for  the  bones  of  their  fathers," 
tainted  with  the  vices,  while  refused  the  pri 
vileges  of  civilization,  they  are  indeed — 

44  What  others'  crimes  and  injuries  have  made  them." 

The  white  man  drove  them  from  their  ances 
tral  forests.  The  right  of  possession  I  am  not 
prepared  to  dispute  ;  I  cannot  decide  upon  the 
law  of  nations ;  but  the  law  of  Christian  love 
is  plain.  "  To  loose  the  bands  of  wickedness, 
to  undo  the  heavy  burdens,  and  to  let  the  op 
pressed  go  free,  and  that  ye  break  every  yoke" 
We  cannot  give  back  their  wide  domains,  but 
we  can  point  their  way  to  a  rich  inheritance 
beyond  the  everlasting  hills.  We  cannot  deli 
ver  him  that  has  been  spoiled  out  of  the  hand 
of  the  oppressor ;  but  we  can  tell  of  One  who 


204  SCENES    AT    HOME. 

came  to  break  from  the  soul  the  yoke  of  sin — 
we  can  spread  before  them  t  the  unsearchable 
riches  of  Christ.'  Surely,  if  we  desire  a  blessing 
to  rest  upon  our  dear,  dear  country,  we  should 
strive  for  the  salvation  of  the  scattered  rem 
nants  of  that  race  which  first  welcomed  the 
white  men  to  its  shores.  My  heart  sickens 
when  I  think  of  the  melancholy  war  that  now 
desolates  our  southern  frontier,  and  has  cost  the 
blood  of  so  many  of  our  best  and  bravest. 
Oh  !  that  the  cross  had  been  our  standard,  and 
the  ministers  of  Christ  our  leaders,  in  the  first 
warfare  against  our  forest  foes. 

These  considerations  of  our  duty  to  others 
inclined  us  to  decide  for  the  far  west.  For  our 
selves,  there  was  no  positive  duty  to  keep  us 
at  home.  Edmund's  only  sister  is  happily  mar 
ried,  and  his  mother  resides  with  her ;  his  pro 
tection,  therefore,  is  not  needed  for  them.  He 
has  no  other  relatives.  For  myself,  my  father's 
second  marriage  with  a  lady  well  calculated  to 
make  his  domestic  life  happy,  has  enabled  him 
to  dispense  with  my  presence,  and  his  new 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  BRIDE.  205 

views  of  duty  induce  him  cheerfully  to  for 
ward  mine.  My  excellent  grand-aunt  Lorimer 
is  dead,  and  my  orphan  cousin  Susan  is  a 
happy  wife  and  mother.  I  have,  then,  no 
claims  of  affection  which  can  interfere  with 
those  of  my  beloved  husband,  and  no  claims 
of  duty  which  interfere  with  my  earnest  desire 
to  assist  in  carrying  the  message  of  salvation 
to  the  heathen  of  the  far  west. 

I  at  first  determined  to  defer  my  marriage 
until  after  Edmund's  ordination,  but  after  con 
sulting  my  friends,  it  was  thought  better  that 
our  union  should  take  place  immediately,  and 
we  have  agreed  to  devote  the  present  year,  as 
much  as  possible,  to  preparations  for  our  future 
duties.  Edmund  gives  all  the  time  he  can 
spare  to  the  study  of  medicine  ;  and  I,  under  his 
instructions,  shall  hope  to  be  something  of  a 
physician  myself.  My  dear  mother's  long  ill 
ness,  you  remember,  made  me  a  skilful  nurse ; 
and  I  am  taking  a  course  of  kitchen  lectures, 
that  I  may  be  able  to  provide  somewhat  for  the 

18 


206  SCENES   AT    HOME. 

comfort  of  my  dear  husband  when  we  are  set 
tled  in  our  log  cabin. 

Our  privations  will  doubtless  be  great,  and 
our  trials  may  be  greater,  but  we  are  not  poor 
(for  my  dear  father  has  been  very  liberal,  and 
"money  is  power"  even  in  the  wilderness,) 
we  have  youth,  health,  energy,  mutual  affec 
tion,  and  mutual  desire  to  labour  in  the  service 
of  our  Heavenly  Master.  We  do  not  expect 
"a  Paradise  to  open  in  the  wild;"  but  thus 
endowed  and  thus  employed,  we  may  humbly 
hope  for  the  blessing  of  God  upon  our  labours, 
and  a  reasonable  portion  of  domestic  happiness 
at  our  fire-side. 

I  am  called  away.  You  shall  hear  from 
me  again  very  soon ;  mean  time,  I  am,  dear 
Marianne, 

Affectionately  yours, 

JOANNA  FIELD. 


THE  END. 


TIVERSITY  O*  CALIFORNIA  LIBRAR^ 

\ngeles 
Ms  F  "  last  date  stam^e^  ' 


UNIVERSITY  ot  CALIFORNIA 

AT 


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